The Right Call
by thegraytigress
Summary: The first time Clint made a tough call, he spared Natasha's life. This time his decision may prove to be his last when it lands him and Steve in the middle of the jungle, alone, injured, and fighting to survive.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hi, everyone! In this story, we'll see copious amounts of Steve and Clint getting their butts kicked and kicking butt in return. The idea from this story started out as an excuse to have them running around half-naked and sweaty in a jungle, but it evolved into an exploration of what it means to be good and bad and how difficult it is stand in the middle. Please read and enjoy!

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**1**

Something was burning.

Clint opened his eyes, the stench of fire filling his nose with every short, miserable breath. Pain rushed through his head, horrible and dizzying and nauseating, and clenching his eyes back shut was all he could do to stop from throwing up. He breathed heavily through gritted teeth, groaning as his body shook against the unbearable waves of agony. When the pain finally settled to something a lot less debilitating, he braved opening his eyes again.

"Oh, crap," he whispered.

He was hanging _upside down_, suspended in the co-pilot's chair of the quinjet that had been shot down in the middle of the goddamn jungle. Blood rushed to his head, increasing the hammering of his pulse to his skull until it was like thunder, and he groaned against the vertigo, swallowing coppery bitterness in his mouth and bile burning at the back of his throat. His hands, slick with blood, fumbled for the buckles of the harness that kept him in the chair. Finally he found them, pressed the release with shaking fingers, and he unceremoniously tumbled the three feet down to the roof of the jet.

He struck painfully, and he lay there for a minute, gasping. Smoke filled his sight and lungs, acrid and foul and reeking of burning plastic and scorched metal and gas. He coughed. His left shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he looked over it and found a bloody mess of glass protruding from his arm. Just looking at it made him feel like heaving, but he closed his eyes again and steadied his breathing until he could manage a coherent thought. Then he grabbed the shard and yanked it free. He tossed it aside, immediately pressing his right hand to the wound. The smoke shifted overhead as he dared to look up again.

The pilot of the quinjet hung down, just as he had, but very much dead.

He realized that he hadn't been alone, that he _wasn't_ alone.

"Cap!" he called, but his voice was little more than a wrangled moan. He turned away from the grisly sight, scrambling on his belly out the back of the cockpit. Shards of glass from the shattered windshield and bits of debris poked into his skin and cut his hands. Eventually he freed himself from the wreckage and fell haphazardly into the main cabin of the jet. Clint squinted through the oily smoke, blinking tears from his eyes. Most of the cabin was completely destroyed. The entire right side was crushed and punctured by what he belatedly realized was a tree, now ablaze. The fire spewed a choking plume into the collapsed area. Gear lay strewn everywhere. And the entire rear of the quinjet was a twisted, broken hole, the tail having been ripped off by the missile impact. Sunlight streamed in through the gaping wound, and he could see the tangled mess of green foliage and trunks and vines beyond. The damage was unbelievable.

And Rogers had been back there.

"Cap!" Clint cried again, rising shakily to his feet and staggering through the remains of the jet. He could barely hear his voice over the roar of the fire and the racing of his own heart. "Cap, where are you? Can you hear me?" Fear tipped the world into a shadowy, spinning haze for a moment, and he nearly tripped over a mutilated chair. Wires hung, sparking and spitting, from a gutted and shattered computer terminal. Desperation left him stumbling and shaking as he dug through the debris. He was beginning to doubt anyone could have survived this. He leaned upward, breathing as deeply as he could despite the heat and smoke, and strained his ears for any sound, any sign, that Rogers was still alive. _"Cap!"_

There was a hoarse groan. Clint wrenched around, nearly losing his balance, and scrambled to where he thought he'd heard the sound. The emergency hatch of the jet had been punched in, wrangled and burned, and had slammed against the opposite bulkhead. He reached the wreckage and saw hints of blue and red beneath scorched black. He swallowed his terror and quickly pulled as much away as he could. After a couple of seconds of laboring, he found the Cap.

Steve was crushed up against the bulkhead behind him, pinned in something of a sitting position. Somewhere during their flight before or the crash he'd lost his cowl. Blood drooled down his cheek from a cut along his hairline. His face was smudged with blood and dirt and soot. His jaw was bruised. And were it not for the one inch thick steel rod embedded in his stomach, it might have just looked like he'd settled down for a nap after a nasty brawl.

Clint fought the burn of nausea again. This was very bad. "Cap? It's Barton. Can you hear me?" There was no response. Steve's face was pale underneath the grime. Clint held his ear close to Steve's mouth and felt the light brush of air. At least he was breathing. He jabbed his fingers to the Captain's neck and found a weak and thready heartbeat. "Steve, come on. Wake up." Panic crept into his voice as he glanced behind him to where the hatch had been. There were bent and fallen and trees, likely struck and crushed and left to burn by the tumble of the quinjet through the jungle. But beyond that, there was nothing to hide them. Nothing to protect them.

Not to mention they were stuck inside the burning remains of an aircraft loaded with fuel, ammunition, and other things that might not take too well to fire.

They needed to get out of here.

"Come on, Cap," Clint said, turning back to his pinned teammate. Rogers groaned again, shifting a little against the burned bulkhead, and winced. Clint glanced at the rod again, feeling sick. He grabbed both sides of Steve's face. "We need to move. You have to wake up."

Steve's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a breath. Agony struck him, and he screamed and slumped. His hands immediately came to grasp the metal impaling him. "What - "

"Easy. We're in some trouble here," Clint said, trying to hold on to some measure of equanimity. His head was pounding and he could barely breathe for the heat and stink of smoke. He tried to remember the emergency medical procedures he'd been taught by SHIELD, but his brain was too muddled to really concentrate. He didn't see much blood at first, but as Steve shivered and struggled, the glistening pool of dark red under the Captain's rear was revealed. He was losing it in a torrent, probably because the rod had passed straight through him. Clint crouched at Steve's side and tried to peer between his back and the bulkhead and saw his fears were correct. The damn thing was lodged in the metal wall.

This was very, very bad.

Rogers needed a surgeon and a hospital, but he was going to have to make do with Clint and hoping for a miracle.

There was the sound of gunfire outside. Clint swore under his breath. "Hold on," he said to Steve, who really didn't have much of a choice, as he staggered to his feet and looked around frantically. Usually the emergency medical supplies were located under the bench in the quinjet, and he staggered to its bent remains along the left side of the cabin. He stood on his toes and pulled at the seat above him as hard as he could. Thanks to its damaged state, he was able to yank it free. Stuff fell down on him, supplies mostly, and he gratefully grabbed the medical kit. He rushed back to Steve, flipping open the steel case and searching desperately for bandages. He found an ample supply.

Steve was making an admirable show of staying calm, but Clint could see his pallor worsening and his eyes losing their vigor. With the amount of blood pouring from his wound, it would only be a matter of minutes before hypovolemic shock consumed him. Captain America boasted innate healing and regeneration that was pretty much beyond belief; Clint himself had seen it after the Chitauri incident. Rogers walked away from that battle bruised, battered, and shot, and the next day any evidence that he'd been hurt at all was only lingering stiffness and a few fading bruises. But he didn't think Steve would survive this. Not with that damn rod still inside him.

Clint tried to think but he couldn't. Everything hurt too much and was too jumbled. He just acted, not knowing what to do but knowing they couldn't afford to wait for him to come up with a plan. "Cap, we need to get it out. I think they're coming. We need to move."

Steve was losing consciousness fast, which meant they needed to move faster. Normally Clint wouldn't have remotely considered extracting an impaling object from a wound without the help of a doctor. He didn't know what internal organs had been damaged, how bad the blood loss truly was (although it looked pretty damn bad), or if the rod had hit his spine or his lungs. But there wasn't time to hesitate. "It's stuck in the wall behind you."

Steve said nothing, did nothing. Clint felt his chest tighten in rising worry. He threw caution to the wind and grabbed the end of the rod. He pulled as hard as he could, baring his teeth and throwing all his weight into it. But it didn't budge. He choked on his breath, glancing around outside. He thought he heard a rumble, like a truck. "Cap, I can't get it. Steve!"

The other man's head lolled to his chest. Blood slipped from the corner of his mouth. "God," Clint moaned, lifting Steve's chin and listening for his breath again. It was still there, but weaker than ever. "Come on, Cap! I need your help here."

Steve's eyelids fluttered and Clint caught of glimpse of blue. "Just… you go. Now."

He tried to sound like Captain America. He tried to make it an order from the leader of the Avengers. But it came out as a weak whimper, so it was easier to ignore it. "You think I'm leaving you here? Hell no. I'm gonna get your hands on this and then you need to pull it out. I can't do it alone."

Asking a man impaled by a metal rod to assist in said rod's extraction was a little hard-core, even for Clint, and he'd seen and done some hard-core stuff in his life. But there was no choice, so he ignored the rising voice of doubt and guilt and horror in his mind and tried to be strong for them both. He gathered Rogers' blood-slicked hands from where they'd fallen in the other man's lap and held them around the rod. But the Captain's fingers were limp. Rage and frustration filled Clint, hot and strong, and he rounded on his fallen leader. "Damn it, Steve! Help me!"

Thankfully, his plea seemed to orient Steve enough that his hazy blue eyes opened and focused for a moment. Clint wasted not a breath, keeping it simple so the agonized soldier could understand. "You need to pull this out or you will die." Steve swallowed thickly, seemed confused a moment longer, and then nodded. His grip firmed up on the rod, and Clint laid his hands over the other man's in the best show of comfort he could manage. "I'll help you. Okay? On three. One. Two. Three!"

They both pulled, and with a sickening squish and a miserable wail from Steve the rod came free. Steve immediately went limp as Clint tossed the rod away into the shadows, struggling anew to fight the urge to vomit. Immediately he pressed the bandages to Steve's front and back, pulling the other man's large frame away from the wall. He laid Steve flat and held his breath as he felt for a pulse. Alive, but barely. And not for long if they didn't get out of there.

He thought quickly and moved even faster, a primal instinct to _save their _lives guiding him. His shaking fingers attacked the buckle of Steve's utility belt, unsnapping it from his waist. Underneath Steve's uniform the hideous hole pulsed, veritably spilling Steve's life onto the ceiling of the quinjet. Clint gritted his teeth and packed the wound as best he could and shimmied Steve's belt higher up his belly and tightened it as far as it would go. It wasn't much, but hopefully it would hold the pads in place and maybe even slow the bleeding. He quickly checked Rogers over for other injuries, but aside from a few lacerations, abrasions, and minor burns, he was alright. It was a small shred of relief, but the puncture wound alone was enough to kill him and fairly quickly.

But that wasn't going to happen. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He scrambled then. He found an abandoned pack in the weapons supply area and filled it with as much stuff as he could find. The medical kit. Water. Guns and ammunition. He glanced around quickly but couldn't find Rogers' shield. It must have been lost when the tail of the jet had been torn off. For some stupid reason, that nearly upset him more than their likely impending doom. He crawled back through the debris to the cockpit and found his bow (thankfully undamaged) and quiver, which he strapped on. The smoke was very thick, almost suffocating.

The radio in the jet spluttered. A rush of static loudly assaulted his ears, and hope rushed warmly through him. "… Bart… hear… copy?"

He couldn't make out the voice. Somebody from SHIELD, he hoped. Somebody to help them. Exhilarated, he stood and reached as far as he could to procure his headphones that had been shaken from his head in the impact. He hit the push to talk button. "This is Barton," he gasped. "We've been hit by enemy hostiles. The jet is down. Agent Farris is dead, and Captain Rogers is badly wounded. Request immediate extraction, over."

There was no answer other than garbled static. The radio was probably shot to hell. Unwilling to admit defeat, Clint tried again, wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. Even if the radio was transmitting, there was no way to know if SHIELD could make out his response. It was a touch of consolation that every quinjet was equipped with an emergency beacon that transmitted the nature of any damage the aircraft had sustained and its last location to the helicarrier. But they were in the middle of the Amazon; it would take some time for SHIELD to get to them.

Time they didn't have.

Clint dropped to the ceiling, his blood running cold with fear, as he heard trucks ahead and the shouts of men. He watched the black-clad soldiers appear in the trees some hundred yards before them. "Shit," he whispered, and he turned and scrambled back to the cabin.

Steve was where he'd left him. For a moment he feared he'd made a mistake in turning his back on him even for those short minutes. But he was still alive. "Cap," Clint gasped, winded as he slid down next to Steve's motionless form. The bandages were already saturated with blood. His uniform was purple, and there wasn't a speck of white left in the stripes. "Cap, we need to get out of here. They're coming."

There was no response. Steve was ashen, his eyes ringed in darkness. Shock had claimed him. Death was probably not far behind. Clint swallowed his anger and fear, slinging his pack over his good shoulder. It would be impossible to get Rogers out of there without his help. The man was significantly larger than he was. "I can't carry you. You gotta get up. Come on."

Nothing. The shouts were louder and louder. "Come on!" Clint roared in desperation and fury. "On your feet, soldier!"

Steve awoke with that, giving a bloody cough. Clint was shaking almost as badly as he was. Any other man would have died from his injury. But he was aware enough to keep fighting, to plant a red hand on the ceiling and shove himself upward with an agonized grimace and moan. Clint was there immediately, slinging Steve's arm over his bad shoulder and attempting to take some of the other man's weight as they shakily got to their feet. He staggered, nearly losing his balance under his burden. His shoulder burned and bled. Steve's left arm was wrapped around his side.

They said nothing else, escaping through the wreckage and out into the unbelievably humid jungle air. Clint nearly choked, ignoring the pain and fear as he pulled Steve with him. As quickly as they could, they put distance between themselves and the burning remains of the quinjet. Clint's lungs and legs burned and ached and threatened to fail at any moment. He couldn't stop, though his body begged for reprieve. He had to keep going, because if he didn't, they would die. It was the only thought tumbling around his aching head.

They pushed deeper and deeper into the thick and grasping vegetation. And then there was a horrific boom behind them, and a shockwave that toppled their meager balance. They both went down into the damp soil and plants, Clint barely getting his bad arm under him in time to break the fall. The blast deafened them, rushing over them furiously and violently. Clint covered his head and tried to protect Steve as much as he could.

It was quiet.

He dared to open his eyes, to lift his head. He was moderately surprised and greatly relieved to find them alone.

But his relief died as suddenly as it came, doused in icy horror.

Steve wasn't breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**2**

Clint had made a bad call.

His mission had been straight-forward. Romanoff had uncovered information that a drug cartel in Colombia had somehow gotten hold of technology that SHIELD had worked fervently to lock down after the Chitauri incident. Hundreds of agents and soldiers had secured the battlefield that was Manhattan, picking through the damage and bodies to collect every alien weapon, operable or not. But the goal had been unrealistic; the containment zone was simply too large and a civilian area at that. So after clean-up was well underway, Fury had dispatched Barton, Romanoff, and anyone else he could trust to assess if Chitauri weaponry had escaped SHIELD's control. Of course it had. And Natasha had tracked down the sale of the weapons and learned (through some fairly unscrupulous sources) that they'd fallen into the hands of Juan Vargas, supposed Colombian businessman but purportedly the head of the largest cocaine cartel in South America. Intel indicated this guy was powerful, violent, and exceedingly wealthy, a bad combination that had led to some of the worst situations the world had ever faced. Therefore, if he'd gotten a hold of Chitauri technology, it was imperative he be stopped.

Unfortunately, his heavily armed and fortified base was located in the heart of some of the least hospitable areas in the Amazon. Fury had wanted to keep this mission fairly secret so as not to rile relations between Colombia and the United States and her allies. There was no need to make an international incident of the situation. Romanoff was already undercover in one of Vargas' satellite groups that was trafficking guns and drugs northward; blowing her connections at this juncture hadn't made much sense when they still didn't know what Vargas intended to do with the weapons he'd acquired. Thor had returned to Asgard and had not been in contact with SHIELD since Loki's war. Stark couldn't be subtle if his life depended on it (and in this situation, it probably did). And the Hulk was simply not an option, for obvious reasons. So Clint had been assigned to infiltrate the perimeter of the drug lord's base and assess what he could. He had three main objectives: establish whether or not Vargas actually had Chitauri weapons, uncover what he planned to do with them, and scope out how difficult it would be to destroy the base.

But Rogers, who had basically been cooling his heels after aiding in the clean-up of Manhattan, insisted he join Clint on this escapade into the jungle. It was too dangerous to go alone, the soldier claimed, and Clint could have laughed at that. He'd been in more dangerous situations by himself than he cared to remember; he could handle himself just fine. He only ever worked with Romanoff when the situation required, and the two of them had become so accustomed to each other that they anticipated each other's actions and thoughts and words, an advantage that was crucial when a split second determined success or failure and life or death. Steve was a fantastic soldier and a more than capable fighter, but he wasn't what Clint considered an expert (or even knowledgeable) in black ops. But Rogers had proclaimed that they were a team now, and no one should go it alone on a hazardous mission. And Fury, shockingly and annoyingly, had agreed.

So there the two of them were, slipping through the jungle toward Vargas' compound. And then, after disabling a few guards and having Rogers toss him fifteen feet high over the fence (super strength did come in handy, he had to admit), Clint had infiltrated alone with Steve guarding his exit. He'd snuck into the weapons hangar through the air ducts. He hadn't been surprised to see the Chitauri weapons; Romanoff was damn good at her job, and he knew it. What he _hadn't _expected was to find Vargas and his men testing them… on prisoners. Poor folk, if their abject horror and tattered clothes were any indication, captured only to be convenient targets. Children, even, and a few adults who prayed with sobbing voices. A few blue blasts had killed them all, much to the satisfaction of Vargas. Clint prided himself on his ability to sever his mind from his emotions, to get his mission done at all costs. There were only a few times in his life where his heart had trumped his job. Saving Natasha when he should have killed her was one.

This became another.

He lit the place up. They'd never seen him coming.

Of course, this had shot the mission to hell. At least he'd destroyed the Chitauri weapons, albeit only the ones he could see. Rogers had demanded over their comm link what the hell was happening as the weapons hangar went up in a fireball, shouting that Clint shouldn't have made this decision, that this wasn't what they were here to do. Steve hadn't seen the atrocities inside, and there was no time to explain. Getting out of the compound had only been possible because Captain America had been outside the wall, dispensing with the oncoming slew of guards like it was going out of style. These men weren't prepared to deal with someone who could move faster, think quicker, and hit harder than they could on their best days. Steve had muscled his way inside, furious with Clint, but there had been no time to explain. The two had sprinted into the forest, Vargas' considerable armed forces in hot pursuit. Bullets had rained on them, slamming into the ground with a spray of damp soil and severing leaves from trees. Clint had called for their extraction, and Farris had brought the quinjet low. They'd barely made it inside before they'd been hit by an RPG. And down they'd gone, down right into this mess.

Slip in and gather some information. Slip back out. He'd done that dozens of times for SHIELD without ever losing his cool. This was his fault. He didn't want to think about it, but he knew it beyond any doubt. He'd made a really bad call.

And Steve wasn't breathing – _was dying _– because _he'd screwed up_.

"No," Clint murmured, dropping his pack and rolling Steve onto his back. Blue eyes were half-lidded, his skin pale beneath the layers of blood and grime, his lips tinged purple. Frantically Clint shoved his fingers to Steve's carotid artery, not daring to hope. No pulse. "No, no, no no _no_…"

He couldn't think for a moment. Then he unzipped Steve's uniform top, knowing he'd never be able to perform effective CPR through the heavy Kevlar over Steve's chest. He balled his fists together, relying on instinct and training because if he stopped to think it would all come crashing down on him that Captain America was dying. He counted feverishly, compressing on Steve's still chest to hopefully get his heart going again. He covered Steve's mouth with his own and gave him a breath. Nothing. Tenaciously he tried again, gritting his teeth and steadying his shaking hands as he pressed repeatedly. "Come on, Cap!" he snarled. "Breathe, damn it!"

Steve didn't. He remained still and lifeless, despite Clint's efforts and desperation. Clint growled and pushed harder on Steve's breast. This wasn't happening. It _couldn't _be happening. "Don't quit on me!" he demanded after another breath. "I know you're tougher than this! Breathe! _Breathe!_" With each passing second, he feared more and more he was yelling at a corpse.

But Steve lurched and drew a short, halting breath. Clint gasped and backed away fearfully, too shocked to do anything more than watch and pray what he was seeing was real. Another breath followed the first, and a deep, miserable cough after that. Clint nearly cried in relief. "Thank God," he murmured. "Holy shit."

Rogers turned weakly on his side, coughing and gasping and fighting for air. His face reddened with color again, and his eyes were squeezed shut in pain. He sucked in breath after breath, his hands covering the wound in his side. He groaned. "Barton?"

Clint managed to regain enough of his shattered composure to crawl closer. He swished his tongue inside his mouth to moisten it and tried to steady his racing heart. How very close Steve – both of them, really – had come to dying left him deeply shaken. He'd been in near-death situations before, but somehow this was more terrifying than ever. "Yeah, Cap."

Steve chanced turning his head to look at him. "Okay?" he asked weakly.

Clint wasn't sure what he meant, but he swallowed and nodded and took the soldier's wildly shaking hand in his own. He gave the other a comforting squeeze. "Yeah, we're okay." It sure as hell wasn't the truth. There was nothing about this that was okay. Steve was still critically wounded and probably bleeding to death. They were trapped in hostile territory with hardly any supplies. The quinjet had been blown to hell, so there was no hope of contacting SHIELD. Their ear communicators didn't have the power to project a signal much beyond a couple of miles, and help was countries away.

And the army of a violent, power-hungry drug lord was probably hunting them down as they sat there.

_Yeah. This is awesome_.

But there was no time to feel bad about it. Steve, by whatever grace (or cruel joke) of fate was fairly conscious at the moment. They needed to move while he was, because there was no way in hell Clint could carry him.

"We can't stay here. We're out in the open."

Rogers was already passing out again. Clint laid himself over his teammate and patted his cheek forcefully until pained blue eyes opened and focused again. He didn't want to cause him any more pain, but he hoped the pressure to his torn belly tethered him to awareness. "I need you on your feet. Can you stand?"

That felt akin to asking a dead man to walk, and it was probably vastly crueler. But Steve managed to hold it together enough to nod, probably remembering enough of how bad things were to realize that Clint was right. Clint took a moment to examine the bandages around Steve's middle. They were already saturated, dripping down his sides to coat the leaves crimson. The archer quickly dug in his pack for some fresh pads and did his best to quickly but gently change them. He pulled Steve's belt tight again and the soldier gave a wrangled moan. "How bad is it?" Steve weakly asked.

Clint couldn't make himself look at the gruesomely ripped flesh too closely, fearful of what he might find. It was hard not to be sick. "Bad," he answered. "You're turning the rainforest all Christmas-y."

Steve grunted. "Sleep it off," he answered after a moment.

"Not here," Clint reminded, afraid that sleep might mean something more permanent, as he examined his handiwork. It was the best he could do to control the bleeding. He shouldered the pack again, ignoring his own aches and pains. His right leg was starting to bother him fiercely. He pulled Steve's arm across his shoulder again and helped him sit up. Steve went white and breathed harshly for a moment against the pain. Clint wrapped his arm around the other man's waist. "We're going up. Ready?"

"No," Steve said with a short, miserable laugh. But he pulled his legs beneath him. Clint pushed himself up, dragging Steve with him. Their first attempt ended with a short cry from Steve and them both back on the ground. Rogers hunched over, holding his arm to his side, moaning hoarsely. They tried again when Steve got his breathing under control, and this time they were successful.

Clint stood thinking for a moment. It seemed fairly impossible that they could get to civilization in the state they were in. There were towns northward, past where the rainforest began to thin, but to get there they'd have to go near Vargas' compound. The extraction point had been north of the compound, but he was fairly certain they'd veered south when the quinjet had been shot down. So unless they swung wide, they'd most likely be running into danger rather than running away from it. South was a vast expanse of the Amazon that Clint didn't think they could traverse even in the best of health. East and west could be possible routes, but logic dictated they stay as close to where the jet had gone down as possible since those were the last coordinates SHIELD likely had of their whereabouts. If they wandered too far, it would only elongate the time it would take for a rescue.

And Steve was hardly capable of an arduous hike through a dangerous rainforest anyway.

But they needed to find shelter and quickly. Rogers needed more care, and they needed to be tucked safely away from Vargas' thugs. With any luck, he could find some place fairly well hidden where they could wait it out.

So he pulled out his compass, got his bearings, and started south, figuring that that direction at least was away from where the bad guys were.

Walking was a rather generous description of what they were doing. It was mostly staggering and stumbling. Steve could barely keep his feet beneath him, and this was not the easiest of terrain. He repeatedly lost his balance, pulling Clint with him, and it was taking all of Barton's strength to keep the two of them moving at a sluggish pace. He was worried, straining his ears to detect any signs of pursuers, but he couldn't hear anything save for the jungle surrounding them and Steve's labored breathing. The soldier was trying his hardest to stay with it, to keep at least some of his weight off of Clint, but he was too injured to really manage much. Every step was agony. Sweat covered his pale skin, leaving his hair in dirty strands that stuck to his brow. His expression was permanently trapped in a miserable grimace. His eyes were half-lidded, and Clint swore he saw the shadow of death creeping within them. The ghost of his breath against Clint's neck every time Steve stumbled and he caught him was weak and frightening. The man was walking himself to ruin.

He gave up after a few more long minutes. "Can't…" he moaned, sinking to the leaves. "No more."

Clint grabbed his arm and sunk beside him. He produced a water bottle from the pack and took a long drink before sticking the nozzle between Steve's dry lips and helping him do the same. It certainly was not helping matters that it was hotter than hell and humid enough that it felt like they were breathing through wet washcloths tied around their mouths. They rested a moment, but Clint worried if they tarried too long he wouldn't be able to get Steve back on his feet. He was exhausted. "Let's keep going."

"You should… should just leave me," Steve murmured, closing his eyes and sagging against the tree behind him.

Clint tried to make a show of strength and courage even though he was feeling anything but. "We've been over this already, Cap. I'm not leaving you."

Steve couldn't catch his breath, panting miserably. He could barely get the words out. The man hardly had the strength to talk and he was wasting his breath on this. "I'm slowing you down. Get out of here." He choked on his next breath, coughing pathetically for a minute into his palm. His hand came away red, but that didn't deter him. "That's… that's an order."

It was laughable, really, and Clint might have cracked some sort of wise-ass remark were the situation not so dire. A man (a kid really, at least five years his junior) frozen in time and thawed seventy years in the future, lost in a new world, was giving him orders at a time like this. "I'm not a soldier," Clint reminded him, stowing their gear. "When we're the Avengers, you can order me around all you want and I'll follow every one of them with pleasure. But it's just you and me here, and I don't have to listen to you. Now let's go."

He got Rogers up and going again. Thankfully this hellish, heated torture didn't last much longer. He heard the sound of rushing water and changed their path to bring them closer to it. The swishing became a roar, louder and louder. A few moments later they came upon a river, and Clint realized they could go no further. To the left a waterfall descended perhaps fifty feet, letting loose a cloud of mist that rose into the towering trees. The cascading flow struck boulders at the waterfall's base, and the river burst through cataracts for a bit before settling into a gentler, leisurely pace. The other shore was too far, maybe a hundred feet. He had no idea how deep the water was. Needless to say, there was no way they could cross this with Steve this badly hurt.

Clint sighed, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do at this point. He glanced up and down the shoreline, sweat tickling the back of his neck and cold chills gathering uncomfortably under his vest. They were cornered, trapped. The sheer face of the cliff to his left rose sharply into the sky, covered in moss and vegetation. Climbing was about as ridiculous an idea as fording the river. But at the base of the cliff there was a cluster of tall rocks that created a shadowy crevasse. Clint didn't think twice, pulling Steve with him along the bank while they still had time and energy.

It was what he hoped. A little cave extended into the cliff face from behind those rocks. It was something of a tight squeeze to reach it. They couldn't fit through side by side. "Steve?" Clint looked to Captain America, who was slouched in his grasp and fading fast. Clint set a hand to his cheek and lifted his face. His head lolled weightlessly, and his eyelids fluttered. "Cap? Come on. Couple more steps and we're done." _I hope. _Steve was unresponsive. Clint shook him less than gently. "Wake up. We need to do this. _Wake up!_" He let all his anger and frustration and fear permeate his tone.

Steve opened his eyes. "… Let me sleep."

"Not yet, Cap. In we go."

He pushed Rogers into the narrow place between the boulders and the cliff. Immediately they were drenched by the warm mist of the waterfall. The roar of the water tumbling down was all they could hear as they inched closer and closer to the cave entrance. At one point water poured down directly upon them, and the path was slick, but they held to each other and made it through.

Steve collapsed the second they were free of the narrow passage, and Clint let him. He drew his bow immediately and nocked an arrow, leaving his injured teammate at the mouth of the cave. His hurt leg nearly failed him, but he only groaned and limped slowly and carefully inside. It wasn't very big, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter. It was dark, but the sunlight filtering in through the waterfall was sufficient the illuminate the entirety of it. There was no sign of anything suspicious, and at least to Clint's eyes it didn't appear as though any animals had lodged there. It was a good twenty degrees cooler inside and sheltered from the elements and surprisingly dry given the waterfall tumbling down just outside. And maybe it was an obvious hiding place, but they were here, and Clint didn't see them moving again without rest.

He dropped his pack and his bow and hooked his arms across Steve's chest under his armpits. He pulled the unconscious Captain deeper inside and then knelt beside him. A quick check revealed that Steve was still breathing. His heartbeat was fast and uneven, and his skin was cold and clammy. Clint swallowed through a dry throat. There were a limited number of things he could do. Steve needed blood badly. But he wasn't about to let America's golden boy die. Not today. Not here.

He dug through his supplies and acquired more bandages and antiseptic. He pulled Steve's blue undershirt up and away from the mess of blood and dirt and soot on his abdomen, wincing as he did so. It was probably a good thing Rogers had passed out. Cleaning out the wound wasn't going to be pretty.

Clint ground his teeth together to hold down his nausea. He worked quickly, trying not to think about who he was doing this to, trying not to notice the blood and the torn flesh and the internal damage and the things that had been lodged inside when the rod had driven through him. It seemed to take forever, and he wasn't sure how complete a job he'd done, but he eventually willed himself to be satisfied with his work and dress the wound in clean bandages. He rolled Steve onto his belly and did the same excruciating job on the exit wound.

When he was done, his fatigue was overwhelming. He undressed Steve as best he could, concerned about heat exhaustion, and let him sleep. Maybe it was a slumber from which he wouldn't wake. It would be a lie to say he wasn't terrified that would be the case. He didn't understand Steve's physiology, didn't know anything about the super soldier serum that made Steve tick, but he prayed it would be enough to pull the other man back from the brink because that was all they had. Clint watched Steve's chest rise and fall, fearing for many long moments that this breath or the next one or the one after that might be his last. But none of them were. So he made sure his bow was nearby and settled against the cave wall. He closed his eyes slightly, pulling his handgun from his hip holster, and swore to himself he'd just rest for a moment. Everything hurt, and he knew he had injuries to which he should tend as well, but he was just too damn hot and too tired.

He meant to keep watch. But he didn't.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**3**

Pain.

Steve was no stranger to it. As a kid, he'd been sickly and weak, his scrawny body constantly struck with this or that ailment. He'd been beaten up all the time as well, so he was well acquainted with bruises and blood and the pain that came with them. He'd lied to Bucky all those years ago (though to him it seemed like just yesterday) when he'd claimed Project Rebirth hadn't hurt that much, that his body hadn't miserably and violently suffered during the quick transformation from a weakling to a super soldier. He'd taken his fair share of damage during battles, maybe even more than his fair share. And it had _hurt_ to crash Schmidt's plane into ice and slowly freeze, alone and helpless and only conscious enough to know that it was happening but he was too weak to stop it.

But this… this was worse than anything he'd ever experienced.

Even before the first shreds of blossoming consciousness coalesced, a part of his brain knew he was injured. Severely. The pain drove through the comforting pall of oblivion, reaching like lightning through a black, serene sky. He tried to ignore it at first, the pull of slumber too enticing, but it was damn stubborn, wrapping his mind in its torturous grip and hauling him away. And the closer he came to awareness, the stronger it got, beating and pounding him until it was all he could think, all he knew, all he felt.

He came awake with a choked gasp. Overhead there was a blur of black and gray and brown. That was all he could manage before clenching his eyes shut again to fight the swell of agony and vertigo. He rode the waves of torment haplessly for what felt to be a long time, breathing against the fire in his chest. He wanted to go back to sleep, to sink back into the blackness creeping about the corners of his mind, but the pain was too persistent. So he found himself staring again into the shadows. And over the roar in his head he heard a voice.

"You with me, Cap?"

He immediately reached toward the pulsing, throbbing, burning hole in his body. Something caught his hands and stilled his frantic movement. "Easy. Don't touch it."

Steve licked his lips and tasted old blood and sweat. He blinked tears from his eyes until he could see. "Hawkeye?" His voice sounded like he'd swallowed rocks.

"Yeah, Cap." As the world slowly ceased spinning, one of the blurry lumps overhead formed a recognizable face. Clint looked haggard, fading bruises and cuts covering him. His hazel eyes were weary and concerned but incredibly relieved. "Didn't know if you were gonna make it for a while."

Steve winced, his limbs numb (maybe that was because his chest hurt so awfully that there was nothing to feel by comparison). His fingers reached the wound, this time unabated, and for a moment all he could think of was the horrible sensation of something hot and sharp and unyielding driving through his body. He thought he was going to pass out again. When he managed to overcome the agony, he realized, aside from a few fleeting, horrifying scenes, his memories were disjointed and fairly impossible to piece together. "What… what happened?" he whispered.

"We were shot down," Clint answered. A water bottle was stuck between Steve's lips. The cool sweetness trickled into his mouth, glorious to his parched tongue and throat, and he sucked weakly at it. That little bit of effort was draining. The bottle was pulled away. "Sleep."

He couldn't make sense of anything else, his thoughts dashed and disordered. A vague but demanding belief that they were in serious trouble plagued him, but his questions of where and how and who failed to ever pass his lips, too jumbled to be coherent. The pull of exhaustion was finally strong enough to overcome him, and he let go.

* * *

When he woke again, the pain wasn't as bad. His chest and belly throbbed viciously for a long moment, but it eventually settled to an ache that was dull enough for him to push aside. His brain finally processed information about the rest of him. He was laying on something rough and unforgiving, bumpy edges and hard spots digging into the bare flesh of his back. It was hot and the air was heavy with moisture. He hurt all over, and his head was pounding in time with his heart. He felt incredibly weak. He tried to remember for a moment how he'd been hurt, and then it all came back. The mission in Colombia. The compound exploding. The flight through the jungle. Alarms wailing about impending missiles, and Clint's desperate shouts from the cockpit. An explosion.

The emergency hatch slamming him into the bulkhead behind him, and pain and the horrendous feeling of metal slicing through him.

He groaned.

"Awake again?"

He opened his eyes, blinked them repeatedly to clear a mist of trapped tears, and settled his gaze on Clint. Everything remained stubbornly blurry for a moment. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Here." The archer scooted across the ground with a black water canteen in hand. He slid an arm under Steve's neck and shoulders and helped him lean up slightly. The strain that put on his damaged abdominal and chest muscles was excruciating, and he nearly screamed, jabbing his teeth into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Clint looked on sympathetically, adjusting the pack under Steve's head to help him stay propped a bit better. Then the water came again, but this time Steve took the bottle himself with shaking hands. He drank greedily, eager to quench a thirst that until that moment had seemed a minor complaint in the face of other maladies.

When he was done, he struggled to just gather his composure enough to form some reasonable thoughts. He couldn't remember much beyond the crash, but a few wisps of things stuck in his muddled mind. Clint helping him pull that rod out of his stomach. Clint getting him up and away from the burning jet. Clint bearing his weight when he could barely walk. Strong hands and determined eyes. Clint saving his life. "Thanks," he whispered.

Barton gave a shadow of a smile, but genuine appreciation shone in his tired eyes. "You would have done the same for me." He didn't say it dismissively. It was just the truth. They weren't really friends, hardly knew each other in fact. But they were teammates, had fought and nearly died beside each other, and that sort of thing brokered understanding.

Steve nodded and noticed dirty bandages and dried blood on Clint's arm. "You okay?"

The archer shrugged nonchalantly. "I've had worse." Steve got the impression that he wasn't being entirely truthful, but he decided not to press it. Clint looked down at the mess of reddened bandages around Steve's midsection. Steve eyed them, idly shocked by the amount of blood saturating them. "I patched you up as best I could. It's a good thing you're you. You should have been dead a while ago." He shook his head in obvious amazement. "You got lucky, Cap. We both did."

Steve felt oddly disconnected from it all. Where the pain had once been undeniable, his body's own defenses had kicked in and put some distance between him and the suffering. It was sticking in his mind, like a constant, evil companion, but he could ignore it enough so it wasn't quite so debilitating. And as Clint carefully lifted the gauze and pads, he watched with a detached sense of muted interest. Located just below his ribs and slightly on his left side, the hole in his body was rather disturbing. The area was covered in dried and fresh blood, the flesh torn and enflamed and discolored. Bruising spread out around the puncture, blue and purple and deep, deep red. He looked down on it, and it didn't feel like it was _his_ body that was so seriously injured. It didn't feel like _he_ had come within a breath of dying. It was best not to dwell on it, because he had a feeling if he did it would become too real. "How long was I out?" he asked, taking another drink of water.

"About twelve hours."

"Where are we?"

Clint sighed and sat back a little. His eyes were ringed in darkness, and Steve had to wonder how much sleep he'd gotten. "Not sure. Good news is we're both alive. Bad news is we're stranded in the middle of the Amazon with hardly any supplies and no way to call for help." Steve closed his eyes when he heard that. "Oh, and Vargas' men are looking for us."

As if the situation couldn't get worse. "You sure?"

Clint shrugged, although the motion clearly caused him some pain because of his injured shoulder. "No, but it's pretty damn likely. I couldn't exactly cover our tracks out there with you bleeding all over the place." His tone was without accusation, but Steve felt bad about it anyway. It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that Barton had suffered a rather harrowing experience trying to keep the both of them alive after the quinjet had gone down. It wasn't entirely rational, but he was guilty for the burden he'd been.

But it hadn't exactly been _his_ fault that they were in this dangerous predicament to begin with.

"We're not going to be able to stay here too much longer. If they figure out we're here, we're gonna be trapped," he added. Steve immediately realized he was correct. This cave that Clint had found was fairly small, and if the vibrating rumble and the spray of water seeping in were any indication, it was tucked behind a waterfall. He looked toward the glittering sunlight and saw hulking boulders blocking easy access to their small sanctuary. It was a fine place to hide, but it would become a tomb if they got trapped inside with their only means of escape choked with enemies. And if Clint was right, their unmasked trail would be too obvious to hope they wouldn't be found.

Which meant they needed to move. Steve gritted his teeth, shoved his elbows into the unforgiving rock beneath him, and pushed himself upward. It was harder (and more painful) than he anticipated. "Whoa, you're not ready," Clint argued, grabbing his arm and trying to stop him.

"Have to be," Steve hissed, fighting against the nearly unbearable burst of fire from his wound. It radiated from his belly, up and down his chest and around to his back, where he remembered the rod had driven out of him and into the quinjet's bulkhead. _Don't think about it_, he thought when the terror only made the pain worse. _Don't think about it. Don't. You're stronger._ With renewed determination, he got himself sitting up right.

The world didn't seem that much better now that he was sitting, but it felt good to have at least triumphed over this first obstacle. He sat still for a long moment, catching his breath and hunched in pain, watching the blood seep through the bandages around his middle and coat his hands. Clint wrapped a supportive arm around his shoulders and took a bit of his weight, relieving the pressure from his chest and abdomen. He nodded his thanks.

"Super soldier or not, that's not something to fool around with. You need a doctor." Clint shook his head. "I thought you were going to bleed to death." These last words were said quietly, gravely, and Steve felt miserable again for what Clint had endured on his behalf. "So just take it easy."

"Don't worry about me," Steve said, still winded. "I'll be okay." He took his weight off of Clint's arm to make his point, and nearly passed out from the pain. White spots exploded behind his eyes, and then his vision swam in shadows for a long moment after that. When he again gathered his composure enough to look at Clint, the other man was clearly not convinced. But he wisely chose not to argue. "Just help me up."

"Steve, you're being a damn idiot," Barton snarled, but he did as Steve requested, looping his arm around his waist. Steve pushed himself upward with a cry of pain that he couldn't suppress. The cave spun nauseatingly, and the vertigo nearly sent him crashing back on his ass. But it didn't. He locked his muscles, clenching his jaw, and fought to stay upright. He was sort of surprised he actually managed to.

"Not gonna lay here when we're in trouble," he managed to say after panting for a bit. "Have to get up eventually, and it won't be any easier in a few hours." If the set of Clint's jaw and the ire in his eyes was any indication, he was pretty furious. And worried. Again, he wisely chose not to make an issue of it. The archer released him and took a small step back, remaining close enough to catch him should he topple. Stubbornly, and in a great deal of pain, Steve stayed on his feet. He wiped at the sweat dripping down his face and glanced around. He still wore his uniform pants and boots. "Where are my clothes?"

Clint had obviously resigned himself to the fact that this was the way things were going. He walked back to the other side of the cave and grabbed Steve's discarded blue undershirt and uniform top. "Sorry they're a little wet. I figured you wouldn't want to wear your own blood."

"Thanks."

"I couldn't find your shield," Clint said sadly.

Steve suddenly felt very naked. That shield was a part of who he was, of what he was. It was irreplaceable, made from some of the rarest metal on earth and crafted by the hands of genius now long gone. He suddenly thought of the war, of wielding that hokey Captain America shield from the USO show against the HYDRA soldiers when he'd rescued the 107th, of Howard Stark showing him the sleek, indestructible prototype for his new shield with a proud grin on his young face. Thinking of the war and HYDRA and Howard Stark and the Howling Commandos always led his mind to the same places. Bucky. Peggy. He couldn't deal with that right now, with the grief of knowing the last thing he'd been able to keep from his time was gone. So he pretended it didn't hurt and wiped sweat from his eyes again and pretended it wasn't tears. "It's alright. Stark can make me a new one."

"Yeah," Clint said softly, understanding what Steve hadn't said. He sighed a bit and looked over the rest of their provisions. "We do have three handguns, a fairly good supply of clips, and two shotguns and plenty of shells to do some damage. And five concussion grenades. I've got enough arrows. Not enough to take out all of them, but enough."

Clint was trying to make the best out of it, but it was fairly that they didn't have nearly enough munitions to take on a hostile force the size of Vargas'. Intel had suggested the drug lord had some two or three hundred men at his disposal, most well-trained soldiers and black ops defectors who had realized they could make more money working for a criminal than they ever could working for a government. Mercenaries. They were two against a veritable army of them.

Steve had faced worse odds and come out on top. The Avengers had been five against a thousand when they'd stopped the Chitauri. But he didn't feel confident.

Clint changed the subject as he too likely realized their chances of prevailing in a fight were not great, even if Captain America was in his top form, which Steve most certainly was not. "Our communicators still have a fair amount of battery life. Maybe ten hours."

"Are they strong enough to contact SHIELD?" Steve asked, not daring to hope.

Clint shook his head. "They do have a limited range transponder built into them, so I suggest we save them until we absolutely need them. If SHIELD is close enough when we fire them up, we might have a chance of them finding us."

It was bleak but better than nothing. Clint nodded at the mouth of the cave. "If you're feeling up to it, there's a spot outside where you can wash up. You should flush the wound out a little. The water's pretty clean. Then we'll redress it. You want help?" Steve shook his head. "Be careful."

He rethought his assertion that he was ready to be walking with the first step. He nearly toppled with the surge of pain but kept his feet beneath him. Thankfully the cave wall wasn't far and he grabbed it and rested a long moment, trying not to shake with the effort of controlling the pain. The next step was a little easier, and the one after that, and pretty soon he was limping out the mouth of the little cave.

He saw what Clint meant fairly quickly. To the left the waterfall struck the rocks above, and the flow downward was lessened significantly by the impact. Steve slowly made his way over to the stream of water running down off of the outcropping above. Pressing his left hand to his wound, he hesitantly cupped the water with right. It was warm and clear. He set to washing his face, his hair, losing himself in the hot spray. He wiped the blood away, a little nauseated to discover how much of him was covered in it. Gingerly he pulled the saturated bandages away and tried hard not to look at the hideous injury. The first touch of water to the raggedly punctured flesh was torture, and he nearly blacked out. He spent a few minutes struggling to breathe, struggling to center himself. Then he carefully wiped the water around the injury, cleaning away the dried and fresh blood and flushing the area as best as he could. The act was excruciating, but he held tight to consciousness and finished. The water wasn't sterile, but his enhanced metabolism generally protected him from infection. At least he hoped it would. The enhanced healing provided by the serum had never been tested quite so strenuously before.

He limped back inside the cave. Clint looked up at his entrance and immediately came to take his arm. Silently they shuffled back to the floor. Clint helped him sit and lay back against the pack again. Steve closed his eyes momentarily, driven to exhaustion. Water dribbled down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead and dripping from his chin. He shivered, despite the crushing heat. "With me here, Cap?" Clint's voice drew his attention, and Steve opened bleary eyes and tried hard to focus. He swallowed the foul taste in his dry mouth and nodded. Clint nodded, too. He held the bottle of antiseptic and some fresh bandages. "Gotta make this one count. It's the last of it."

The archer worked silently, gently cleaning Steve's wound. Steve clenched his jaw tightly and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through his nose to handle the pain. Every tender touch of Clint's hands felt as sharp and brutal as a knife, and every drop of antiseptic burned. He balled his hands into his fists and dug his nails into his palm until he drew blood. His emotions were jumbled, his memories littered with holes and unanswered questions. Fueled by pain, anger and frustration won the battle inside him and prompted him to ask something that had been creeping about his mind since he'd awoken. "What the hell happened back there?"

The gentle press of Clint's fingers ceased. Steve opened his eyes at Barton's silence, feeling the other man stiffen with poorly controlled apprehension. The antiseptic ran directly into the wound and Steve nearly yelped, groaning hoarsely instead. "Sorry," Clint said.

Silence returned, now laden with tension. Clint finished with the entrance wound and then helped Steve sit up. Fresh blood leaked from the wound, and fresh hurt radiated from it, and he forgot everything. When he came back to himself, he found Clint behind him, dabbing at the other injury. Steve grimaced, trying to quell his nausea. "You didn't answer my question, Barton."

And Clint persisted in his silence. Steve forced himself to relax. Suddenly this niggling issue, this thought that had been dancing on the edges of mind, couldn't be ignored. It was the crux of everything that had happened to them. They'd both nearly died, and Agent Farris had, and now they were in dangerous territory being hunted by the men they'd been sent to stop. And this would not have happened if Clint hadn't blown the base. "Destroying the weapons wasn't part of the mission," Steve said, trying to keep himself calm and his voice even. But he wasn't calm. He hurt badly. And his voice was rough from the ordeal. "Fury wanted to track them if Vargas sold them. It was a trail that could lead right to the biggest terrorist threats in the world."

"I know the mission objectives," Clint returned sharply.

"Then why didn't you stick to them?" Steve asked, turning despite the hurt and settling the other with a questioning glare. Clint looked away again, his jaw tense and his eyes guarded. Admittedly Steve didn't know the other man that well. Thanks to Loki, Clint had spent most of the Chitauri incident playing for the wrong team. But he got the feeling that Clint was a good man. Maybe a bit of a loner (and Steve wasn't even sure that made a difference because they were all loners), but someone on the level. Someone who did the right thing. Someone who followed orders. "What happened?"

Clint was still. Steve didn't want to delve into the darkness he glimpsed in the other man's eyes. But he felt he deserved an answer. Barton obviously did, too, because after another long, tense moment he answered. "They crossed the line."

Steve grunted. "They don't seem to be the types to even realize there is a line." The silence threatened to return, but he didn't let it. "What happened in there?"

Clint didn't answer. Steve didn't understand, but he was getting too frustrated to care about wearing kid gloves. "Well, it must have been a damn good reason to throw out the mission, single-handedly torch the base, and land us in this mess."

"I made a bad call," Clint snapped.

"Yeah, you did. And it wasn't yours to make."

Clint's eyes flashed. "Maybe you called the shots back in New York, but you came along here as my partner, not my _commanding_ officer," he stated coldly. "So I don't have to answer to you."

Steve's anger mounted. He really didn't want to argue, to have this already difficult situation be made even so by being at each other's throats. "If you don't want to treat me as your leader, fine. I never asked you to. I don't even care if you don't want tell me why you left me out of your decision. But if we're gonna make it out of this, you need to trust me."

"It's not about trust," Clint responded. The heat left his tone, and in its stead there was a touch of shame. "Now isn't the time and this isn't the place."

Steve got the distinct impression that if Clint had his way there would never be an appropriate time or place. He didn't begrudge him that; they all had their demons (assuming this rash act had been rooted in one or two). If someone pressed him about the war and everything he'd lost, his response would likely be about as forthcoming.

But they should have been better than this. Whatever had happened, Clint's actions not only subverted their mission, it had resulted in the death of a SHIELD agent and placed them both in some pretty serious peril. He was angry about that, angry at Barton if he was being honest with himself, even though the man had saved his life. And he wasn't at all satisfied with Clint's answers. But he let it go, because he didn't want to stress them with doing anything other than that. "Just don't cut me out."

Clint didn't promise, didn't apologize, didn't argue, didn't even answer. Steve was mildly annoyed, but he let that go, as well. It felt like a wall had come between them, dividing whatever connection they might have had. The archer set to bandaging his wounds again, having Steve press the sterile pads as best he could to his front while Clint held them to his back. He wound the gauze around as tightly as he dared, and Steve held his breath when even these gentle ministrations were agonizing. When Clint was done, he helped Steve dress. "Thanks," he said, winded and weary but feeling at least a little more normal, leaning back against the cave wall.

"No problem."

"I need to rest a minute."

"Sure. I'm gonna go outside, scope things out." Clint gathered his bow and headed to the front the cave. He looked back, met Steve's gaze firmly for the first time since he'd woken, and nodded. Then he was gone into the spray.

Steve intended to think of some way out of this situation, but he dozed off almost instantly. A low, vibrating hum jolted him from a dreamless sleep. He lurched forward, forgetting momentarily the damage done his to body, and collapsed against the cave wall. He quickly calmed his rasping breath and pounding heart so he could listen. His hearing was significantly better than that of the average human thanks to the serum and he could easily track the sound. Over the roar of the water, there was a heavy beating against air. Louder and louder. He knew it instantly.

A helicopter.

Clint burst through the water and rushed inside the cave, dripping and winded. He seemed frantic. "SHIELD?" Steve asked hopefully. He didn't know why he bothered.

"No," the other man answered, gathering up their supplies. "They're getting closer. We need to move. Now." Staggering slightly, Steve noticed for the first time that Clint was favoring his right leg. But before he could question the archer, Clint reached a hand out to him. "Think you can do this?"

Drawing a deep breath, Steve planted his hands against the cave floor and pushed himself upward, using the wall behind him for support. It hurt like hell, but he got to his feet and even remained standing despite his dizziness. He'd wanted to do it on his own, to prove to Barton (and to himself) that he could handle this. But Clint's firm, strong hand on his arm felt like the best support in the world. Breathing heavily, he met Clint's doubtful gaze. "Not much choice, is there?"

"Nope. Come on. Let's go before they make another sweep."


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**4**

It was a damn good thing Steve was Captain America. Any other man would have died from the type of injury he'd sustained. Twenty-four hours ago he'd been bleeding to death on the floor of a cave, and now he was on his feet, pushing through the forest. It was downright amazing, and Clint had seen some pretty crazy stuff in his life. He was infinitely grateful that they were moving, albeit fairly slowly, and that Steve seemed to be holding his own.

The rainforest was thick, the vegetation heavy and dense and downright obnoxious. It wasn't an environment conducive to travel, which is probably why Vargas had built his base here in the first place. Too difficult to easily attack or breach, but not too far from civilization to conduct his business. When SHIELD had deployed them on this mission, it hadn't bothered Clint too greatly to be continually surrounded by hulking trees and leaves and vines and flowers and muddy moss that seem to suck his boots down into it every time he stepped on it. When they had just had to sneak into the compound, the jungle had only been a nuisance. Now it was an impediment of the worst sort, hot and unbearable and difficult. He was starting to hate it.

He used his knife to clear a path through the brush. It was tedious and difficult work when the foliage became as thick as a wall. He took point, and Steve followed wearily behind him, one of the shotguns slung over his shoulder and a handgun on his hip. After walking for about twenty minutes, Clint felt safe enough to speak. "Okay?" he whispered, glancing back at Steve.

The soldier was breathing heavily, his face flushed and covered in sweat. He was plodding somewhat hunched, his arm wrapped around his injury. One glance was all Clint needed to realize Steve desperately needed a break. He'd driven them at as fast a pace as they could manage, straining his ears for any sign of pursuit. But the forest was quiet save for the squawks of birds and the rustling of leaves and the buzzing of insects that seemed intent on tormenting them. They couldn't see the sky through the densely packed canopies above, but he hadn't heard the helicopter since they'd slipped out of the cave. Even the swishing of the water in the river beside them seemed calm. Therefore they could rest a moment. "Let's stop."

"Haven't heard anything for a while," Steve murmured, closing his eyes gratefully.

"Yeah. Here." Clint took Steve's arm and led him to a slightly cleaner area at the base of two gigantic trunks. The bushes and smaller trees had retreated from this spot, and the ground was relatively dry. They sat wearily, basking in the moment of rest. Clint drew his water bottle and took a long drag, and then handed it over to Steve. They only had one full bottle left. "We're going to need to find some fresh water," Clint remarked offhandedly as he moved closer to Steve. They sat shoulder to shoulder, mostly for support and (though Clint wouldn't admit it, and he was pretty damn sure Steve wouldn't either) comfort.

"Think we can drink the river water? It looks filthier here than it did back there," Steve said.

"Not unless we can boil it," Clint replied glumly. "I was in a bit of a rush to get out of the quinjet – grabbed a kit that wasn't fully stocked with survival gear. No filters, no iodine. Hopefully it will rain and we can collect some that way. It's the freaking rainforest. It should rain."

Steve didn't answer, closing his eyes again. "How are you doing?" he asked after a silent moment they both spent trying to catch their breaths.

Clint knew he should have been truthful. His leg was really started to throb. He tried to ignore it, but it was damn persistent. He'd taken care of his own injuries after Steve had lost consciousness the day before in the cave, and he'd been fairly dismayed to find a burnt, twisted hunk of metal sticking out of his outer thigh. The adrenaline and the panic had blinded him to the pain and blood apparently during the frantic flight from the quinjet to safety. Once he'd taken the moment to actually acknowledge something was really _wrong _with his leg and pulled his pants off, the pain had been overwhelming. He'd made himself extract the burned piece of metal (likely some part of the quinjet's crumpled control console) from his flesh. At least the heat had cauterized part of the gash (resulting in a fairly nasty burn), and he was pretty sure the femoral artery had been spared. But the wound was deep. He'd cleaned it up and wrapped it up and hoped for the best because things were bad enough without him adding to it. "Okay," he finally answered, praying his voice didn't sound as shaky to Steve as it did to him. "You?"

"Okay." Steve's voice _did _sound shaky, awfully so. Clint watched as he lifted his hand from over his wound. His palm was lightly colored red. Clint couldn't see the bandages under Steve's uniform, but they must have been saturated with blood if the new stain on the stripes covering Steve's chest was any indication. "Either I'm numb or it's hurting less." That could have been a lie, too. The other man quickly changed the subject. "Well, since we're here chatting, what's our plan?"

Clint grunted. "You're the one who has the plans all the time." He closed his eyes and wished his leg would just fall off already.

"We're not going to last two seconds out here without another hiding place," Steve surmised softly.

"Probably not," Clint agreed.

"How long overdue do we have to be before SHIELD will send help?"

It wasn't that simple, and Rogers thought too much like a soldier. "Assuming the quinjet's computer didn't transmit our location and an SOS before we went down…" He grimaced, swatting away the latest cloud of bugs floating around his face before wiping the sweat from his eyes. "Days. Maybe longer. Fury doesn't exactly babysit us when he sends us out into the field. We're on our own for the most part. Espionage doesn't always operate on a time table."

Steve's long sigh puffed his lips out a little. "So no prompt rescue then."

"I wouldn't count on it."

If Steve was frightened by that, it wasn't clear. He clenched his jaw, his eyes distant. "We can't hide. At least not here. We'll never make it."

Truth be told, Clint had reached the same conclusion. They couldn't be certain help was coming at all, let alone when. It could be a matter of hours or days or (he didn't want to consider it, but he knew he had to) even _weeks_. Vargas' goons would find them if they stayed near the crash site. The idea to hide had seemed practical when Steve had been on the brink of death. But now that he knew the extent of what they faced, the number of men with helicopters and missiles and who knew what the hell else, they had to escape.

Steve regarded him with tired eyes. "What are we going to do?"

Clint was too tired to think. He tried to remember the map he'd barely studied before leaving the helicarrier. It seemed like a long time ago even though it had only been a few short days. He sighed. "East and west get us nowhere. We can go north. I think there was a river." He grunted. "Piranha River. I dunno. Don't remember the name. Once we get passed that, we'd be out of the rainforest."

"North takes us closer to Vargas' base, right?" Steve asked warily.

Clint swallowed through a dry throat. "Unfortunately. Or we can go south, but there's nothing but rainforest between us and Brazil. Hundreds of miles of it." That wasn't a journey one made lightly. Even under the best of conditions, it would be hazardous and strenuous and would require well-stocked provisions and excellent planning. In their condition, it seemed utterly impossible, but if they could reach Brazil, they'd stand a much better chance of finding aid from a friendlier government. After all, they were in this country illegally and on the behalf of the world's largest and most powerful black ops organization. Most countries didn't take well to that sort of thing in Clint's experience, but Brazil was at least friendlier toward SHIELD and the US than Colombia.

They were silent then. The horrific reality of it all was almost too much to bear. As injured as they were, they stood little chance of surviving this mess, and they both knew it. But despair got them nothing. "Which way, Cap?" Clint finally asked. "Go north. If we can avoid all of Vargas' men and get across that river, we'll be out of this hellhole in a matter of days. Or go south and steer clear of the bad guys but roam the rainforest for who knows how long." When the other man didn't answer, he grew concerned and leaned away from the trunk behind them to look at him.

Steve was breathing heavily, flushed and fatigued, but the corner of his mouth curled into a bit of a grin. A tired, weak grin, like that was all he could manage. "Flip a coin."

Clint laughed wearily. "Didn't bring any money."

It was fitting, in a screwed up sort of way. And it didn't matter really. Both options were incredibly dangerous and difficult, and there were so many unknowns that it was impossible to tell which bad choice was worse. They sat silently for a moment more, tortured by the damn bugs and reeling from the crushing reality of what lay before them. It was tempting to sit and wallow in it. Still, they didn't have time for indecision. "North?" Steve asked softly. At least it was an aggressive decision. Probably more careless and foolhardy, too.

"North it is. Ready to keep going?" Clint helped Steve to his feet, watching worriedly as Rogers spent more than a moment calming his labored breathing and trying to straighten his damaged torso so he could stand unassisted. He wondered for a moment if he should question the other man as to how bad the pain was, but he quickly thought better of it. Steve was proud (he had to be to continue with this farce that he was okay and he didn't need one speck of help), but more than that, he had a protective streak a mile wide. Clint had seen it during the Chitauri incident, and he was fairly certain if he pressed the soldier about his condition, the scrutiny would only be turned back to him and he wasn't sure he could lie about how badly his leg hurt without betraying himself. So he only waited while Steve got a hold of himself and not-so-silently dealt with the pain. When Steve was ready, Clint pulled out his compass and got his bearings. "This way."

They had haphazardly run a bit south in an effort to escape the helicopter, and Clint was not at all happy that they would need to backtrack. He led them away from the river a bit, reasoning that their pursuers were more likely to concentrate their search near the water. They trudged silently for quite some time, picking their path through the tangled mess of trees and vines. Clint gritted his teeth with each snap of twigs under his boots, with each pitfall of roots and rocks and mud that nearly tripped him, with each branch grabbing at his clothes and slicing his skin, with the damn bugs that bit him relentlessly. He had patience; a sniper needed it to blot out the outside world, to ignore distractions and desperation, to wait until that perfect shot presented itself. But this was torturous. And they weren't exactly being quiet. It was hard to move stealthily when they were this injured and the forest was this thick. This was hell. He glanced back at Steve and found him not faring any better. The exertion was showing plainly on his face. But still they went onward.

It didn't take long for them to come upon the first of Vargas' men. They were making their way up a small hill, and at its crest Clint dropped to a crouch and harshly gestured for Steve to get down behind him. It was only due to the slight incline that they hadn't been spotted immediately, and Clint ducked low for a moment. Then he looked over the soil and moss and saw two men milling about, each armed with an AK-47. They were chatting quietly, and a radio crackled with static. Whoever was on the other side asked for a report, and one of them responded in Spanish, but Clint couldn't hear much more beyond that.

Steve slithered closer to him on his belly, his shotgun brought to bear. Then he rolled on his back and nodded. Clint tightened his hand around his bow. Whatever they did, they would have to do quickly and quietly or these two would bring down all of Vargas' forces upon them. He took another brief look, quickly assessing his targets, and then drew an arrow from his quiver. He nocked it, pulled back on the bowstring, and rose slightly, narrowing his eyes. He easily slipped into that place where time was infinite and there was nothing beyond his mark. He sighted them both, effortlessly planning his assault in a single second, and then let the arrow fly. It hit the first man in the neck, and he went down with a gurgle. Before the other even had the chance to register what had happened, he was dead, too.

The two Avengers didn't dare to move, barely even dared to breathe, as they waited to see if their silent assault would be noticed. It wasn't. Clint wordlessly gestured that Steve follow as they quietly snuck down the hill toward the dead men. Once there, they made short work of procuring the dead men's guns. "Water," Steve whispered, pulling a canteen from the one body and handing it to Clint. Then they pulled them away from the open area to the side where the brush was thicker, hoping the heavy leaves and moss might obscure them.

They jogged away, rapidly putting distance between themselves and the kill. Then they hid among some bushes and caught their breaths, shrouded in huge, fanned leaves and vines. "Two down," Steve muttered, holding his arm over his wound with a wince.

Clint gave a little cough and chugged some water. _How many more to go?_ "Let's keep – "

"Quiet!"

At first, Clint didn't hear anything even as he held completely still. But then the sound of boots crunching branches got louder and louder, and he sunk closer to Steve, drawing as close as he could to the other man and making himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Sure enough, a shadow passed over them. Through the curtain of leaves Clint could see legs and black boots and the muzzles of lazily held guns. He felt Steve tense behind him, felt the soldier hold his breath as tightly as Clint was holding his. The men loitered about for a seeming eternity. Then they finally went off, heading in the direction from which Steve and Clint had come.

When the men were out of earshot and no longer visible in the thickness of the forest, Clint sighed. There wasn't much chance the soldiers wouldn't notice the bodies hidden in the bushes if they did more than a cursory glance. He held out a little hope because they hadn't noticed their prey hiding right there under their noses. But it didn't really matter. Obviously this area was teeming with Vargas' thugs, and every minute they spent here was increasing their chances of capture.

Silently they crawled out from under the bushes. And then they ran, pain and weariness forgotten. They didn't speak, darting from tree to tree in an attempt to stay under cover as much as possible. Clint was fairly adept at finding paths that obscured footsteps, at locating places that could act as shields from quick looks, at moving quietly without sacrificing speed. Steve matched his pace and followed his footsteps exactly. Truth be told, Clint was impressed. Not too many people could keep up with him.

For most of the day they trudged through the rainforest. Every time they spotted Vargas' men they were thankfully able to hide or dart away without confrontation. They barely rested, and when they did stop, it was only for a brief moment. They didn't speak, didn't waste energy on conversation when nods and instinct guided them. Clint was pleasantly surprised at how quickly and easily they learned to work together. Their movements meshed, and they operated swiftly and without conversation. When Steve needed to rest, Clint immediately stopped and offered a supportive arm. When Steve detected nearby danger, he alerted Clint with only a gentle brush to his arm or a wordless shake of his head. Their teamwork was comforting, at least one small thing that was going right in a world of wrong, and as the afternoon wore away, a tiny sense of confidence stirred in Clint's heart. He always liked to remain reserved in optimism; it was easier to suffer defeat and disappointment when he really hadn't expected success. But he couldn't help it. As crazy as it seemed, maybe they could escape.

When the sun started to set, they heard water again. The river was ahead. At the top of a gradual descent they paused to rest between a huge downed log blanketed in moss and flowers and another massive tree. Steve wearily slid down, closing his eyes for a moment. Clint tried to crouch beside him but couldn't stand the stress on his right leg. Thankfully Steve wasn't pay attention to his wince. They didn't speak, drinking and breathing and praying this misery would end with them crossing the river and the rainforest thinning away to less dangerous terrain. This would be the last push, and the last of their energy. Clint listened intently for signs of pursuit, but there weren't any. He hesitated to hope that maybe they might actually have won this day's cat and mouse game. He helped Steve to his feet and they climbed the fallen tree and continued.

The land began to slope downward in a perilous maze of hulking trees, pitfalls, soft soil, and bared roots. They slowed their pace unwillingly, trying to carefully navigate the land while moving as efficiently as they could. Renewed vigor fueled them. They probably should have been more attentive to their exposure in the open, but the taste of freedom was too much, and they hurried on.

The ground abruptly disappeared in front of them. They barely stopped in time, Clint almost pinwheeling forward before Steve caught him. They were at a steep precipice composed of unsettled mud and soil, moss, and twisted trees. Some fifty feet below them was the river, a brown monster that was muddy and swiftly moving and miles across.

Clint looked across the vast flow of water to the other shore. His stomach clenched. There was no way they could swim this. He swayed, battered by exhaustion and frustration and rage. Suddenly he didn't give a damn if the ground dissolved beneath his weight and he tumbled down. "Shit," he breathlessly said.

"Yeah," Steve miserably agreed.

Breathing raggedly, he glanced left and right, but there were no answers, just earth falling away and leaving a substantial drop to the water below. There was nowhere to go. Clint hunched over, bracing his hands on his knees, sweat tickling its way down his neck. "Now what?" He sat, weary to the bone.

Steve shook his head, looking every bit as helpless as Clint felt. "Got me. Go east? At least that's away from the enemy. Were there towns there?"

Angry, Clint spat the foul taste from his mouth and licked dry lips. "Not sure."

A look of irritation crossed Steve's face. "Maybe you should have spent more than a minute looking at the map."

"Really," Clint snarled, looking up at the other man. "Why didn't you? I don't recall you looking at it." Steve had the decency to flush a little in shame before turning his angry gaze away. Truth be told, _neither_ of them had really done their due diligence as Fury had summoned them for the mission briefing. Clint had been rather annoyed that Steve had been assigned to accompany him, gazing at the map on the helicarrier's bridge without really seeing it. He didn't know what Steve's excuse was. He knew the other man had issues with technology, but the damn thing had been presented on a screen five feet wide. He should have been able to at least look at it.

Water under the bridge, really.

_Or in the river we can't freaking cross! God damn Piranha River. Probably full of the little buggers anyway._ He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

"Well, we can't go back," Steve said then, eyeing the fall warily and stepping away from the drop-off. "Follow the river?"

Clint grunted. He didn't think he could manage it. Then Steve's hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up and saw blue eyes narrowed but strong and determined. "Come on. We're not dead yet." The hand left his shoulder and instead jutted towards his face, waiting to be grabbed.

He hesitated, knowing they were damn well screwed, wondering if he was ever going to see Natasha again. But he only took Steve's filthy hand and let the other man pull him to his feet. He nodded and then they shuffled back into the rainforest. They walked for just a few minutes, solemn and defeated, when Steve went utterly rigid beside him.

"They're coming!" he hissed.

The snap of gunfire followed immediately, and the two of them threw themselves down onto the forest floor. Clint covered his head, wincing as bullets tore into the ground around them, shredding leaves and punching into moss with a spray of green and brown. His heart was thundering and he winced with every strike. There was shouting up the hill. And to their left. And right. _No,_ Clint thought desperately. _No, no, no no no…._

When the gunfire ceased, there was a loud _bang_ behind him. Steve was on his knees, the shotgun smoking in his hands. One of the men running down the hill fell with a scream. But it didn't mean much. They were being surrounded on all sides. Unless they got out now, they wouldn't be able to. He tried to stand. And he was dismayed to find he couldn't, to feel the wound tearing when he put his weight on it.

And the pain was unbearable.

He fell back down on the ground roughly, opening his mouth in a soundless scream. Fiery hurt rushed up and down his leg, and he clutched the hidden laceration on his thigh. He could barely stand to breathe. "Barton!" He heard Steve shouting his name, but it seemed distant and muted, a throbbing thunder of sound that barely registered in his addled brain. "Clint! Are you hit?"

Tears had flooded his eyes, and he blinked them away. When he did he saw black-clad men racing through the trees at them like spiders. Clint gritted his teeth, panting and struggling and trying his damnedest to _focus_, and leaned up. He yanked an arrow from his back and shot at their attackers. But there were too many. It was too damn late. His moment of weakness had been costly, and now they couldn't escape. They were surrounded.

Steve hauled him upward, ignoring his cry of pain, and half pulled, half carried him back toward the river. They had no choice. Gunfire chased them, closer and closer and damn near striking them. Clint shot at another soldier, and the man fell with an arrow in his gut. He clung to Steve, dragging his completely unresponsive right leg as they staggered back through the trees to the edge of the forest. And then they were there, against the river with the infirm ground beneath their feet and the roaring water behind them.

Clint glanced at the twisting currents for a moment and realized there was no way he could swim with his leg this bad off. And there was no way he could run, either. So they were well and truly screwed.

Clumsily he twirled and nocked another arrow. A dozen armed soldiers flooded their only escape, driving them even closer to the edge. He took aim at them, leaning heavily against Steve, who himself was winded and trembling with the effort he'd spent getting them away from the spray of gunfire. He lifted the shotgun and aimed as well, but it didn't matter. They were outgunned. Outnumbered. Cornered.

It was silent for a moment save for the swishing of the water and the booming of their hearts. "Drop it," snarled one of the men in sloppy English. "Now."

Clint shifted closer to Steve, pressing side to side, and shivering slightly as he narrowed his eyes and forced himself to stay calm. He didn't answer, didn't lower his bow, didn't waver despite the terror and pain assailing him. "Come on, cupid," taunted another of the soldiers with a sneer. "Put down your bow and arrows."

He lost it. He would rather die than be taken prisoner, and he damn well wasn't going to die without a fight. The arrow left his fingers with a rush of air and struck the lead man in the eye socket. He fell with a scream, and Steve shot as well, taking down another. Clint managed to loose one more arrow before the soldiers retaliated. Hell, if they were healthy, Steve and he could have defeated these assholes easy. But as it was, his reflexes were retarded by exhaustion and pain. So when he was shot in the shoulder, he teetered. And the ground gave way under his feet.

_"Clint!"_

Steve reached for him, but it was too late. He tumbled off the edge, falling, falling, _falling_ –

And when he hit the river, agony slammed into him. Water filled his eyes and his mouth and his chest. He wanted to fight, should have fought, but it just hurt so much and his arms and legs wouldn't move. Everything disappeared, swallowed into brown and then grey and then black.

The last thought that struck his panicked mind was that he was drowning.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**5**

Steve knew he was fast, much faster than an ordinary man. The serum had honed his reflexes to be lightning quick, but he wasn't fast enough to stop Clint from being shot. Nor was he fast enough to grab the archer's arm as he lost his footing. Nor was he fast enough to catch him as the ground abruptly _disappeared_ beneath his feet and he tipped and fell from the unstable the outcropping down to the river below. _"Clint!"_ Steve screamed, already whirling and grabbing for Barton's hand as it slipped past him. He watched, horrified, as his teammate careened down in seeming slow-motion before roughly striking the river below. He was sucked beneath the brown water in an instant.

Without another thought, he leapt, drawing as deep a breath as he could in the second it took for him to fall. He hit the water with a splash and a wave of pain that nearly knocked all the wind from his lungs that he'd so quickly collected. The agony from his injury was debilitating, and he sank, numb and wondering if he'd just killed them both. The signals from his desperate brain to _move_ never seemed to reach his limbs, and the sunlight faded away above as he went deeper and deeper into the muddy murk. But the serum had made him strong enough to overcome the vertigo and the hurt, and he came back to himself. _Swim_, reminded his brain less than calmly. _Swim. Up!_

Powerfully he kicked, propelling himself upward toward the faint sunlight. His lungs burned and his heart thundered in his chest, desperate for oxygen. He broke the surface with a gasp. There were slaps against the water, short and loud, and he ripped his head upward and saw the soldiers standing on the outcropping above and shooting at him. Steve took a huge breath and went back under, bullets whizzing by and narrowly missing him. He swam along with the current, darting his eyes around the murky river as quickly as he dared. The water was dark and moving rapidly. It would be nearly impossible to find Clint in this murk, even with his enhanced senses. Panic overtook him, frantically searching, going deeper and deeper in the river. The current would have carried Clint forward, and the gear and his weight would have brought him down. At least, that's what he fervently and fearfully hoped. But the river was thick with mud and too deep for him to reach the bottom. Steve's heart raced, his body aching with the exertion of staying submerged so long. No matter where he looked, he saw nothing but dirty water and leaves and branches. Clint was lost. _Clint was gone_.

He nearly gave up, the pain he'd barely managed to ignore coming back to assault him with a vengeance. The rational part of his brain demanded for air, demanded he flee before he lost his tenuous hold on consciousness, demanded he save himself. But he couldn't make himself go. It was lucky that he spent that moment battling his own need for self-preservation. The river slammed him into something hard and covered in sludge. It was a tree trunk, a massive one, and he'd rammed into one of its sunken branches. He fought to ignore the hurt radiating from his aggravated wound, glancing around frantically, daring to hope.

It was difficult to see _anything_, but about ten feet below him and to the left there was a black blob that was too solid to be a shadow. He dove down, forcing energy into limbs rapidly becoming cold, numb, and unresponsive. It was Clint. He was trapped against another branch, the gnarled, rotting limb having caught him as it dug down into the depths of the river below them. Steve grabbed Clint under the arms and surged upward, knowing neither of them had another second of life in them to spare. He kicked with all the strength he could muster, even as his lungs strained for air and his heart hammered against his sternum and blackness encroached on his vision. The current tried to tug Clint away, but Steve just held him tighter and swam as fast and hard as he could.

Finally they reached the surface and were free. Steve choked, sputtering water from his mouth as he sucked in a deep, shaking breath. His muscles were burning, punishing him cruelly for the abuse, and for a moment holding Clint firmly against him was all he could do. The current shoved them back into the tree and they nearly went under again. Steve refused to surrender, snarling as he kicked upward and grabbed a twisted branch above them. He held tight, even though it hurt like hell, refusing to let go. He shook with the strain of trying to lift the both of them from the river, the current intent on sucking him under the tree. He couldn't do it. He wasn't strong enough, not with the pain growing more overwhelming with every second he spent clinging to the branch. He was frustrated and helpless and fairly certain they were both going to drown.

As it turned out, it didn't matter.

There was the sound of a really big gun firing. Steve turned, and his eyes widened in horror as he spotted a missile streaking through the air from the outcropping toward them. "Oh, no," he whispered. He let go of the branch, barely drawing a breath before the river swallowed them again. And then the RPG struck the tree.

Beneath the water, the explosion was a concussive shock that knocked the two Avengers deeper and deeper. The force struck him, rendering his body inert in a wave of pain and panic. Steve languished a moment, his chest constricting against his will, nearly forcing him to exhale what little air he'd managed take in before going under. Subconsciously his fingers wrapped tighter around Clint, balling in the fabric of the archer's vest, the only thought weakly clinging to the planes of his mind was that _he could not let go_. The water roiled violently, dragging them and pushing them and battering them wildly. Chunks of wood shot through the muddy hell; one of them hit Steve in the head. But still he held on, suffering through the chaos even as shadows gleefully threatened his sight and pain wracked every inch of him. Finally the world settled.

Steve tucked Clint's motionless body to him and quickly swam away from the inferno above. He wasted not a moment, pushing upward on the other side. They broke the river's surface. Behind them the dry half of the tree was ablaze, the flames hissing and spitting as they hungrily devoured the old rotting wood and then died against the river. Smoke covered them in a light gray plume. They needed to move. Now.

Exhaustion threatened him, but he summoned some energy from he didn't know where and swam to the shore line. At least the terrain had dropped considerably closer to the waterline. Here he only needed to find a way to get Clint up onto the ground some fifteen feet above him, rather than fifty. _Thank heaven for small miracles,_ he thought angrily. Some branches hung low, low enough that he might be able to reach them. If he could get his body to cooperate, but his body had frankly had enough.

Over the roar of the burning tree, he heard shouting. There was no time. If the smoke dissipated, they'd be dead. Steve gritted his teeth and rose as high as he could. He groaned with the effort, reaching far upward, straining to gain every bit of length out of his body. Finally, after a seeming eternity of trying, his fingers curled around the branch. He hauled them closer, praying the old wood would sustain their weight, keeping Clint's head above water with one arm under the other man's neck and pulling them along the branch with his other. They reached land, and then there was only the matter of getting them both up there.

Steve gritted his teeth, and with all the power he had left in him, he flung Clint's limp body up to the forest floor above. He felt the wound in his chest stretch with the effort, and a cry was wrested from his lips. He barely maintained his hold on the branch, reinforcing his grasp now with his other arm. He shuddered, fighting the heavy press of oblivion. Then the pain receded again, and he hauled himself up onto the tree limb. It creaked with his weight, leaves and moss and dirt falling to the river beneath him. He scrambled to his feet, took a deep breath, and then jumped.

It was fortunate the rainforest was abundant with things to grab. As weak and weary as he was, he'd misjudged the distance and didn't clear the ledge above. He crashed into the edge, fumbling for _anything_ to stop him from falling back. Thankfully his flailing hands found a thick root, and his descent was brought to an agonizing halt. Steve howled, unable to stifle it, and held tight with his legs dangling dangerously. It took him a few moments of suffering like that to gather his wits and his strength enough to pull his leaden body up and onto the ground.

Then he collapsed, panting like there could never be enough air to fill his aching lungs, shaking from the nearness of it all. He couldn't think for what seemed like the longest time, his mind lost to the relief of surviving, the pain and adrenaline and terror slow to recede. Memory returned in a rush. Clint. _Clint._

Steve jolted up from his moment's reprieve, frantically searching for Barton. Thankfully he lay not far away, mostly on his side, sopping wet and deathly still. Steve scrambled over to him and yanked him onto his back. Clint was a pasty gray, his lips purple and his eyes sealed tightly shut and ringed in shadow. Steve shook his head helplessly, checking for a pulse. It was there, but strained and uncertain. He lowered his ear next to Clint's mouth and nose and felt no breath.

He worked without thinking. He tipped Clint's head back and swept his fingers inside the other man's mouth to make sure his airway was unobstructed. Then he pinched the archer's nose closed and gave him two deep breaths. He forced himself to stay calm, watching Clint's chest to see if it rose. It did, but nothing beyond the breath Steve had forced into him. "Come on, Clint," he pleaded, giving the unconscious man another breath, counting in his head and trying to maintain some semblance of patience and control in the face of utter panic. "Come on. Breathe!" Nothing. Steve tried again, vague, disturbing memories of Clint looming over him, of Clint breathing for him and pressing on his chest and fighting to save his life, crept about the back of his riled thoughts. It made his desperation all that much sharper. "Come on!"

He straddled Clint and carefully pressed upward on his torso a few times, hoping to push some of the water from his lungs. Then he checked for a pulse again. Still there, but even weaker than a moment before. Soon his heart would stop, and Steve didn't know if he could bring him back.

"Damn it, Barton, you're not quitting." He gave Clint another breath and another, praying and praying and _damn it – somebody help me here!_ "I've lost too many people. I'm not gonna lose you. So wake up! Breathe!" Clint remained unresponsive, his pallor worsening, his life slipping through Steve's dirty, bloody, helpless fingers. The pain swelled in Steve's chest, pain and fear and grief, and he shook as he covered Clint's mouth with his own and forced yet another useless breath into the archer's dying body. _"Breathe!"_

Clint jerked slightly. Steve blinked, not sure he'd seen it. Then the archer shuddered, choked, gurgling and water dribbling down his lips. Steve acted quickly, rolling Clint to his side as a seeming gallon of muddy water flooded from his mouth. He coughed raggedly, shaking uncontrollably in Steve's arms. Relief battered Steve so strongly that for a moment he nearly lost it. He leaned back on his heels. "Thank God," he whispered, pulling Clint into his lap as the other man coughed and trembled and _breathed_. He held him tight, panting and tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "Thank God."

The archer said nothing, but he reached up a weak and quivering hand to grab Steve's arm. It was quite a long while before they had the strength to move.

* * *

Right after the horror in the river, it started to rain. Not an easy, pleasant drizzle, or even a heavy storm, but a rough and violent downpour that had the both of them soaked again in a second. Steve cursed miserably, wondering how the hell he was supposed to do this. He had slung their pack of supplies over his shoulder, as well as Clint's quiver (the bow was gone, lost in the river), and he carried the unconscious archer in his arms. He'd wanted to take a moment to deal with Clint's injuries as well as his own (deal with them _how_ he didn't know – he didn't want to think about that), but there was no time. They were too close to the river, too close to Vargas' men. Maybe they thought the two Avengers were dead; Steve could only hope so, but there was no way to be sure, so he operated on the assumption that they were still being chased. Getting onto his feet had been something of a challenge. His own wound was troubling him horrendously, burning fiercely with pain, and his head ached from where he'd been struck in the river by the chunk of tree and from the rush of their traumatic experience. But he was their only hope at the moment, and Clint had managed when their roles were reversed. So he had persevered, gritting his teeth with his burden and staying on his feet even as the world swayed and every bit of him ached miserably for rest. And then he had run, eastward, deeper into the forest but not so far from the river as to lose his bearings.

The rain wasn't making this any easier. He had slowed his pace considerably once the sky had cracked and released this veritable deluge. It was difficult to see in the blur of green and brown with sheets of rain pounding and punishing. He'd almost tripped countless times, his boots and legs covered in mud. But he'd kept his feet beneath him so far, kept Clint tucked to his chest and as protected as he could. The archer hadn't spoken since his near drowning, hadn't woken even. A few breathy moans and indecipherable whimpers was the sum total of Clint's interaction with him for the past few hours. Steve was gravely worried.

He drove on, even as his legs shook. He needed to put as much distance between them and their pursuers as he could. Even as exhaustion dragged him down, he fought and fumbled through the teeming rain and dense woods. He wouldn't fall. Memories prodded at him as he sprinted, memories from distant times and distant places that somehow didn't seem so long ago or so far away. He'd been in some tough scrapes before. The Howling Commandos had pushed HYDRA out of Germany and Austria and Switzerland, but it hadn't been easy or without casualties. But this… This was worse than the snowy hell they'd often found themselves in. And he was utterly alone. Even at the war's darkest moments, he'd had his friends and comrades around him, loyal and brave and as willing to fight as he'd been. He'd never been out of radio contact with SSR for more than a couple of days and even then it had always been according to plan. There had _always_ been a plan.

He was staggering blindly with Clint dying in his arms and he had no idea what to do.

But whatever he was going to do he needed to do soon. Night was quickly falling, the miserable weather making the sunset only noticeable as gray slipping into deeper and deeper hues on its trek toward black. There wasn't going to be light, at least not enough to see, and he wasn't brave enough to trek through the Amazon at night without aid. He needed to find some place to camp. It was laughable, the thought of spending the night in this hot, wet, dangerous place with bugs crawling all over them and who knew what prowling in the forest, but there really wasn't a choice. The cave back by the waterfall seemed like a luxury hotel right then.

Steve stopped, squinting through the driving rain and appraising the area. He listened for signs of trouble, but there was only the heavy patter of rain against leaves and the occasional grumble of thunder. This was as good a spot as any, he supposed. To his right there were some gigantic trees standing guard around a fallen friend: a massive log, the carcass of a tree that had collapsed years ago. A couple of its mightier branches were still attached, and they hung over some six or seven feet above the ground. A cascade of vines and leaves hung around them; every bit of wood and dirt on the bark that could support life had some measure of vegetation sprouting from it. It looked a bit drier and somewhat protected from scouring eyes. At least he hoped so, because he couldn't see anything else and he didn't think he could go any farther.

He stumbled to the little alcove, pushing himself to take these last steps. He couldn't walk under the branch at his full height, so he crouched, groaning at the renewed pain in his chest. Things had finally settled to a dull ache during his march (thankfully – he didn't think he'd have made it this far otherwise), so this severe reminder was unexpected. A few staggering steps in and his knees simply gave out. He took the brunt of the stumble, not sacrificing his hold on Clint to break his fall and instead turning to land on his side. He blacked out from the agony.

When Steve came to, he couldn't remember where he was for a blissful moment. Then he felt the never-ending pain in his chest and the weight on his arm and looked over. Clint was laying where he'd fallen, partially in Steve's embrace and mostly on the soft, muddy soil and moss. Steve managed to catch his breath and pull together the stream of awful events that had led to this mess in his head and when he did that, he sat up and felt horribly guilty for having succumbed.

Only a few minutes had passed. Outside, the rain punished the world and thunder roared and the gray twilight was disappearing rapidly. At least it was fairly dry in this little spot he'd found, the wide branch and its motley collection of plants above catching most of the water. He quickly turned to Clint, gently rolling the other man to his back and leaning close again. Clint was breathing, but it was strained and weak. He was soaked thoroughly and shivering. Steve had no idea how long he'd been without oxygen under the river, though he reasoned it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Still, that was enough to cause permanent damage, and Clint wouldn't wake, no matter how fervently Steve prodded and patted and pleaded. It took some measure of equanimity for him to realize that if the hypoxia had been serious enough to produce brain damage or coma, there was nothing he could do anyway. Therefore, he needed to concentrate on the things he might be able to fix and hope for the best.

Steve looked to where the archer had been shot in the right shoulder. The bullet had passed straight through, and the bleeding wasn't terrible. Steve dug in the pack for what he could find to treat the injury, and then he vaguely remembered Clint informing him that he'd used up what limited medical supplies they'd had. All he could find were a couple of capped syringes loaded with morphine that Clint smartly hadn't wasted on him. That didn't do him much good right now, however. They had no bandages and no antibiotics.

Steve sighed, trying to think for a moment. Then he unzipped his uniform top and shrugged out of it. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he peeled his blue undershirt away from his chest. When he caught sight of the bandage around his torso, he stopped and fought the press of pain and a blur of traumatizing memories. Despite how sodden the pads and gauze were with water and blood, they were still sticking to his torn flesh. He didn't think he could deal with that right now, so he ignored it and turned his attention back to Clint. He drew the archer's combat knife from its sheath and set to slicing and ripping his undershirt into strips. They weren't sterile, and they weren't terribly absorbent, but this was all they had. With a handful of his make-shift bandages, he cleaned out the gunshot wound as carefully as he could and bound it as tightly as he dared. Clint never reacted during the procedure, though it probably hurt. Steve worried anew about how deeply unconscious the other man seemed to be. Plus (and he checked again just to be sure) Barton had developed a significant fever. Maybe that could have resulted from the gunshot, but the onset was too fast for that to be likely. And this seemed too serious to be the consequence of one of the minor injuries he'd sustained earlier.

And then he wondered what the hell had happened back by the river. Why had Clint gone down like he had? He couldn't help but feel a little angry. That moment where Clint had stumbled and fallen had cost them any chance of an escape. And then he'd just _attacked _when they might have tried to escape or jumped into the river together or… The options hadn't been many or great, granted, but _once again_ Barton's impulsivity had left them worse off than they had been. This didn't seem characteristic of him, but Steve had to keep reminding himself that he really didn't _know_ the other man. He didn't understand anything beneath a cool surface, didn't know what made him burn. So he couldn't explain it. But that didn't stop him from wanting to.

Quickly he looked over the body before him for some other gunshot wound to explain Clint's actions, but there wasn't one. At least not one he could see.

Steve grunted and unzipped Clint's vest. He wore a black undershirt beneath it, dark and glistening with water but not blood that he noticed. No obvious injuries. Then he recalled that Clint had seemed to be favoring his right leg off and on during their trek that day. He hadn't thought much of the occasional limp at the time, engrossed in his own miseries, but now he felt like a damn idiot for not saying something. He felt down Clint's leg and found a fairly sizeable hole in his black pants on his right thigh. Steve swallowed thickly and undid the archer's belt and unbuttoned his pants and unzipped the fly. As gently as he could he pulled down the sodden fabric.

"Damn it," he whispered.

A bandage was wrapped about Clint's thigh, soaked through with blood. Steve found his hands shaking as he cut through the gauze with the knife and removed the soiled dressing. Beneath it was a hideous puncture wound, and the deep laceration was surrounded by an equally hideous burn. It oozed blood, the skin around the gaping tear charred and cracked and blackened. Blisters dotted his skin, some bleeding as well, others painfully swollen and enflamed. The burned area was bleeding the worst and looked recently aggravated. This had to have been from the crash, which meant Clint had gone for almost two days without telling him about it.

Steve sat back slightly, a storm of emotions pummeling him. Worry and fear, mostly, but anger that he'd yet again been left in the dark and shame for not noticing this sooner and hurt that Clint hadn't trusted him enough with the truth. Now there was nothing to be done for it. It was infected, if the discharge and foul smell were any indication. Clint was in rough shape. He'd seen enough serious injuries in the war to know that the odds of Clint's survival were low. He didn't know what to do. "Damn it," he hissed again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Clint obviously had trust issues. Of course, now he couldn't answer, breathing harshly and quickly. Steve stared at his face for a moment, wincing himself at the grimace twisting Clint's expression and the tiny lines of pain around his eyes and taut lips. He sighed and buried his face in his hands, smearing mud and blood on his brow as he massaged it roughly in a desperate attempt to ease his aching head. Frustrated tears stung his eyes. If Barton had only come clean about this from the beginning, if he hadn't been such a _damn idiot_, they could have avoided this. Steve would have told him to save the antiseptic salve and bandages for his own use; Captain America couldn't get sick, even from a wound as grievous as the one he had and even in unsanitary conditions that teemed with bacteria and parasites and who knew what else. All those supplies had been _wasted_ on him. Anger led him to release a ragged, desperate cry, and he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it violently into the ground. How the hell could Barton have managed to walk like this? How the hell had he _not noticed?_

Steve wavered in his own fury for moment, struggling to keep utter despair at bay. It really wouldn't get either of them anything if he broke down. Clint wasn't dead yet. They had time.

So he dampened a cloth from one of their water bottles and wiped gently at the leg wound, trying to clean the pus and old blood away. Immediately the pain pierced Clint's deep unconsciousness, and he stirred with a groan. Steve quickly grabbed one of the two morphine injections. "Think you want to sleep through this," he murmured, uncapping the syringe and pushing the needle into Clint's uninjured arm. A second later the archer fell back into a deep, peaceful sleep. Steve found a lighter in the survival kit and prayed it wasn't too wet to strike the flame. Thankfully it wasn't, though the little light flickered and nearly went out in the humid air and raindrops that escaped through their would-be roof. He heated the tip of the knife, and then he scraped the dead skin away from the wound as best and as carefully as he could. He lanceted a few of worst blisters and tried to expunge the liquid inside them. It was slow and pain-staking, and Steve found his vision blurring and his hands shaking. When he finished, the sun was nearly gone and he could barely see.

He poured some of their drinking water to flush out the wound a final time and then used the biggest strips of his shirt to bandage it. It wasn't much. It wouldn't be enough. The marvels of modern medicine were very far from this place, and they needed them badly.

He was so tired, too tired to deal with his own injuries. He knew he needed to. He got about as far as probing the back of his head where he'd been struck in the river (thankfully there was only a tender lump and a small cut that had stopped bleeding hours ago). Tending to the wound in his chest was too much to think about, so he didn't and swore to himself he'd look later and mulled his own hypocrisy and wondered if their roles had been reversed if he wouldn't have done the exact same thing Clint had. _You can heal. He can't._

Clint was shivering wildly despite the ungodly heat, and Steve couldn't think straight or keep his eyes open any longer. He stowed their gear and scooted behind Clint. He sat with his back to the tree, the bark rough and grainy to his naked skin. He grabbed their weapons and made sure they were close. Hopefully they'd get rest that night; he shuddered to think what would become of them otherwise. He took Clint's upper body and as gently as he could he pulled the other man's leaden form between his legs and into his arms so Clint's back was to his chest. At least he could provide some warmth. Clint's fever was really high, but this was only a passing thought in his exhausted mind. He fell asleep holding the archer's shivering body tightly and protectively to him, his hand clenched around one of the guns and his finger pressed to the trigger.

* * *

Steve woke to the sound of a low groan. He gasped and sat up quickly, scraping his back along the rough tree behind him. The motion jostled Clint, who still lay against him, his head pillowed into the nape of his neck. "Clint?" he asked softly, shifting a bit with a wince to ease the soreness in his back. He was rewarded with a fresh burst of pain from his injury, to which he drew a sharp breath and stilled immediately. Clint moaned again while Steve breathed through the renewed hurt burning through him. When it passed and he blinked the tears from his eyes, he looked down at the archer again. "Clint? You awake?"

The warm body against him didn't respond. Gently Steve slid out from behind the other man to lay Clint prone upon the ground. The archer's face was flushed with fever and twisted in a grimace. Steve grabbed his wrist and quickly counted his pulse. It was way too fast for his liking. His spirits plummeted as he realized his assessment last night wasn't far from the mark. Clint was sick and getting sicker.

But he seemed to be coming around, at least. Maybe that wasn't a good thing. "Clint?" Steve quietly called, grasping the man's unwounded shoulder with one hand and laying his muddy palm across his brow. His temperature was soaring. "Can you hear me? It's Steve."

Clint's eyelids fluttered, and he grew distressed as the comforting pall of sleep faded away. His brow furrowed and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Ss… Steve?"

"Yeah. You need to drink. Want to try to sit up a little?" He didn't wait for an answer, sliding his arm beneath Clint's shoulders and helping the other man rise. They only got about halfway before Clint turned a decidedly bad shade of green. A second later he choked, turning rapidly to his side. He retched and Steve helped him up more, shamefully turning his eyes as Clint's stomach rid itself of the remains of whatever he'd eaten and the water he'd swallowed. He didn't watch as Clint heaved and suffered, leaving his supportive hand on the other's back. It felt wrong to watch another man so weak.

When it was over and Clint hunched over, gasping and shaking, Steve heard footsteps in the forest.

His face blanched, his eyes widened, and his heart started pounding. He said nothing, scrambling away from Clint and out to the edge of their cover. He glanced through the dangling curtain of leaves and vines, darting his eyes frantically around. He couldn't see anything but trees. The rain had stopped and dawn's first light had turned the forest golden and serene. It might have been pretty if it weren't for the dire circumstances. Steve held very still and listened. The footsteps were certainly coming closer, but he couldn't be sure from which direction. It didn't matter. Their hiding place was obvious and Vargas' men would surely be searching any sort of shelter.

Quickly he scooted back to Clint, who'd fallen to lie on his belly. Steve glanced at him worriedly before grabbing his discarded uniform top and putting it back on. It was pretty uncomfortable without his undershirt. "Leave me, Cap," Clint murmured, cracking open tired eyes to watch his companion's frantic preparations.

Steve grabbed their weapons, ensuring both the handguns and the shotgun were loaded. He slung the shotgun and the AK-47 over his shoulder and put the handgun in his holster. He fastened Clint's quiver around him and made sure the grenades were easily reachable in their pack before shouldering that, too. "Nope," he answered simply, taking a moment from his work to glance at the other man.

"I'm dead weight on your back," rasped Clint.

"You were dead weight in my arms all yesterday evening, and I managed." Steve wiped at his face and then took a giant gulp of water from the bottle.

Clint coughed and shivered. Steve saw the swirl of fever and delirium in his eyes. "This is _my_ fault," he whispered. "You're not dying 'cause of me."

"Who said anything about dying?" The other man opened his mouth to continue this stupid argument, but Steve spared a second to glare at him before shoving the other handgun into Clint's shaking, clammy fingers. He crawled to the edge of their cover again. "Shut up, Barton. You didn't leave me. I'm not leaving you. Sit tight. I'll be right back."

Drawing a deep breath, Steve slipped out and brought his gun to bear. He held it tightly as he rose to his feet and stepped silently and slowly away the fallen tree. He narrowed his eyes, glancing around carefully but quickly, but they seemed to be alone. The morning sun lit the drops of water that languidly fell about him in an almost ethereal show of beauty. Steam rose from the ground and caressed the trees. The rainforest was quiet and seemed fresh and alive. He didn't like it.

There wasn't time to waste. He knew he'd heard men coming, so they needed to move right now. He holstered his gun, dropped back to his knees, and made to clamber back under the branch to pull Clint out. But then he heard a click and felt something poke against his shoulder. Cold fear washed over him, and he lifted his head. Then he moved without thinking, whirling and grabbing the gun at his back and yanking the surprised man forward. Steve stood in one fluid, fast motion and rammed his knee into the other's midsection. Then he kicked him away, and he went flying into the trees.

Steve pivoted, lifting the gun he'd just taken, and pointed it at whoever stood behind him. He backed up slightly, surprised at what he found. At least a dozen men surrounded him, most wielding bows composed of wood with fletched arrows held nocked against taut strings. A few had guns, but they were well-used, outdated, and far from standard issue. They were dressed on old clothes that were worn and stained and streaked in mud and sweat. They were all dark-skinned with brown hair and brown eyes that regarded him warily. Clearly these weren't Vargas' men.

They were very still. Steve breathed heavily. He might have been able to fight them all, but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk it, as injured as he already was. And without help, Clint would likely die. There was no way the archer could walk with his leg so badly messed up. So he took a chance, lowering his gun slightly. "I don't want to hurt you," he said softly, even though he figured these people didn't speak English. It was worth a shot.

They didn't understand, regarding him still with empty, angry eyes and their weapons at the ready. Steve set the old rifle he held to the forest floor slowly, figuring if this took a turn for the worst he still had plenty of weapons at his disposal. He didn't want to use them. These people had no place in their struggle, and they needed aid more than additional enemies. "Please."

When he rose again, the sun caught the star on the chest of his uniform. The man closest to him glanced at it, surprise etched on his features. "America?" he asked, the word heavily accented.

Steve glanced down at his chest and then back at the man. "Yes. America." He opened his arms to show he meant them no harm. "Please, I need your help."

The man glanced to his companions, speaking rapidly in Spanish. Steve couldn't understand them, watching with worried eyes. He stepped a little closer and was rewarded with guns that had slightly relaxed being shoved at him anew. He stopped immediately, his mind racing. Back in the 40's, there'd been a couple of Puerto Rican kids at the orphanage. He wracked his brain trying to remember them and the few things he and Bucky had learned to say. Finally he managed something and prayed it was close enough. "_Ayudame._" The men seemed shocked. Steve didn't know if that was good, but he figured if they wanted to shoot at him, they would have already. "_Ayudame. _Please. _Por favor._" The men didn't lower their guns. "Please. My friend is sick. _Please_."

They hesitated, casting doubtful looks between them, before the man who'd recognized the star on his chest lowered his rifle slightly. "_¿__Trabajas por Se__ñ__or Vargas?_"

Steve didn't know what that meant, but hearing Vargas' name and seeing the hatred in the man's eyes convinced him of what to say. "No. No, he did this to us. He hurt us."

"Hurt?"

"Yes! _S__í_."

They shared a slew of wary glances again, and Steve watched, holding his breath and not daring to hope. Finally the man nodded and lowered his weapon. "We help you."

Steve could have collapsed in relief. "Thank you," he said breathlessly. "_Grac__í__as_. Thank God." He raised a finger to them, scooting back a bit and then motioning to under the branch. He didn't want them to think he was planning some sort of surprise attack. When they seemed to understand what he meant, he scurried back under and found Clint where he'd left him, passed out. He scooped the other man into his arms and struggled to get out again. He emerged, and the others momentarily had their guns on him again. But they lowered them the minute they saw Clint's limp body in his arms.

Soon he was following them through the rainforest, hoping he was not making a mistake. Clint woke up once and looked at him with glazed eyes. "Where're we going?" he slurred.

"Don't know," Steve answered softly, "but it's gotta be better than where we were."

* * *

_Ayudame. _– Help me.

_Por favor. _– Please.

_¿__Trabajas por Se__ñ__or Vargas? _– Do you work for Mr. Vargas?

_S__í_. – Yes.

_Grac__í__as_. – Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing this story! I really appreciate your thoughts. I want to thank Guest for his or her comments. In a quick response: I was aware that Steve is fluent in a lot of languages, but I didn't go that route for two reasons: 1) drama (of course :-)) and 2) it didn't seem to me he had a lot of time to learn during the war, even if he is a quick-study. I suppose they could have been deployed to Spain, but since the movie wasn't clear about it and this occurs shortly after the Avengers, I went with the route that Steve hasn't become so knowledgeable yet. But thanks for bringing this up!

Also, ithilgalad75, I probably should have mentioned that I'm basing all my Spanish translations in this story off of what I learned in high school (long ago) and what I could find on the internet. So, please, if you find anything else that's wrong, continue to let me know!

Clint's backstory is referenced here, which is a combination of what is established in the comics, what's in the movies, and my own take on it. A little warning, however: this chapter mentions child abuse/molestation, though not in great detail. Please read at your own discretion.

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**6**

The Crawford Children's Home had once been a farm. Forty some odd years ago old John Crawford had died, a widower and having lost his own children a lifetime prior, and he'd bequeathed his land to the state of Iowa with a wish that his estate be turned into a safe haven for orphans. At least that was story imprinted on the plaque in the foyer of the place that Clint and Barney now called home. It was probably a lie, because Clint hated this place, and it really didn't seem safe.

They'd probably only kept the plaque out of respect for the old dead codger, because nothing of this place was quaint or comforting or farm-like. With the exception of the old barn on the outskirts of the property, everything had been changed in the last few decades. A tall four story building stood where the house had probably been, cold and ugly and filled with dormitories that seemed more like prison than a haven. Clint and Barney lived with six other boys, all Barney's age or older. Barney had taken a liking to them, but Clint hadn't. They were rough and they seemed like bad kids. And they didn't care for a runt tagging along. Barney wasn't a bad kid; he took care of Clint and had ever since their father started drinking and their mother had lost herself to depression. He'd taken care of Clint when they'd both died, and Clint knew he would take care of him as long as he needed it. So it never made much sense to him why Barney seemed attracted to the bad seeds. He didn't like breaking the rules, didn't steal or bully or even tease, but he was friends with these sorts that attracted trouble wherever they went. Maybe he was intrigued and excited by it all. But it didn't really matter. When Barney was horsing around with them, Clint made himself scarce.

He crept through the white-washed corridors, the recently waxed tile floors gleaming in the faint fluorescent light. He was pretty good at being quiet, if he could say so himself. He'd gotten exceedingly adept at sneaking around after lights out. There were more than seventy kids at this place, and there were only a few psychiatrists, social workers, nurses, and one warden who frankly scared him. It was easy to escape detection, and a few minutes he found the back door through the kitchens. Then he was outside in the cool summer night, darting across the open field to the barn.

Clint liked the barn. It was really nothing to look at, rundown and unkempt, but it was quiet and nobody ever went there. He'd quickly discovered since becoming an orphan that he was never really alone. He was _alone_ (except for Barney), but surrounded all the time by other kids and people asking him how he felt and what he needed like they cared but they didn't really care at all. The barn was empty and dangerous, and he liked that. It was filled with old, rusty equipment, things to climb on and imagine about. Barney would probably kill him if he knew he went there; Barney worried he couldn't handle himself. But Clint knew he could.

He snuck inside the rickety door. The hinges were old and dilapidated and probably would have shrieked with opening but he knew just how to do it so they were silent. The place was deserted, just as he knew it would be. Nobody ever came there. The moonlight streamed inside from innumerable holes and slits between the boards of the ceiling, but the place was still really shadowy. It didn't faze him. He knew his way up to the loft, even though the ladder was missing. He picked a path up and through the dead, hulking masses of farm equipment, jumping and climbing nimbly. If he fell, he'd probably get hurt or worse, but he didn't. Never even stumbled or lost his grip. Clint was good at this kind of thing, too.

Up in the loft, there was dust and spider webs and old, moldy hay. But was it nice up here; he could look through the old window, the pane long since broken and lost, and see the whole estate, including Crawford Children's Home. From here, it didn't look as awful and lonely and hopeless as it did inside. Clint spent long hours up in the loft, thinking about running away. But mostly he practiced shooting his sling shot. He'd found the old thing in the barn on one of his first trips out there, hidden among the debris and clutter on the floor. Surprisingly, the rubber was still pretty stretchy, and the thing had some power behind it. He was really good at using it, taught himself really, and he could launch rocks and pebbles straight across the barn into the old metal containers on the other side. Once he'd found it, he'd spent hours one night out in the pasture, slinking among the tall grasses to find all the little stones he could. He went through them pretty quickly and often had to collect a new bunch.

It was nice. He could get away from it all with the sling shot in his hands. All he had to think about was getting that stone inside those containers. When he mastered just launching it across the barn, he invented new challenges, like bouncing it off other things and seeing if he could still make his mark. He usually could with a little practice, and pretty soon he'd learned to judge which shots were possible and which weren't. Everything else went away when he was aiming, their father's drinking and their parents' deaths and this cold and uncaring place where no one except Barney even noticed him. He concentrated, and he could forget it all.

He had been trying a new shot that involved ricocheting a pebble from the rafter midway to the open containers. He had the stone pulled back in the sling shot, trying to judge the distance and determine the correct angle and power. He was about ready to release it when he heard a noise. And it was too late. The stone left the sling and flew through the air. His shot had gone a little wild because he'd been surprised, and it hit the rafter but went down too far to the left and clanged off the side of the container. The noise was deafeningly loud in the stillness in the barn.

Clint held his breath, immediately flattening himself to the dusty floor of the barn. He glanced over the edge and darted wide eyes around the shadows. Had someone finally found his hiding place? He was going to get caught!

It was quiet again, like whoever he'd heard had heard him too and was trying to listen like he was. Then there was a grunt and a muffled cry. Clint's heart rate skyrocketed. He tried to slide closer, terrified but wanting to see what was happening. He shouldn't have. The cries continued, small and full of pain and fear, and Clint lost his nerve and pressed down into the floor again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to breathe and trying to keep himself completely still but he was trembling. More crying. Chuckling and some low, evil-sounding words he couldn't hear. He recognized the voice. The warden.

He chanced looking again and saw a dark form over at the left side of the barn. The man was covered in inky shadows, but sometimes he moved and the moonlight caught him. His back was to Clint. There was someone at his feet, struggling. Clint couldn't see him very well, but it was a kid. He looked away as the warden grumbled something and the kid responded in a shaky, miserable tone. There was cloth ripping, the cruel, cruel sound of pain and more grunting, and he couldn't watch anymore.

He didn't know how long he lay there, not moving, not seeing, not _doing_ anything. All he could think about were the kid's shoes. Red high tops. He knew those, had seen them in the home before, but he couldn't picture the face of their owner. He tried and tried but all he could think about was Barney and all he could hear were the terrible things going on below him.

Eventually the cries quieted. Clint wondered what to do, too afraid to even open his eyes. But when there was a thud and then the sound of rustling, he turned. The red shoes weren't moving anymore.

Clint closed his eyes again and cried.

He didn't move for forever. The barn was devastatingly quiet again. Maybe other things had happened, but he hadn't paid attention, too scared to think. Eventually he noticed the heavy silence, the peaceful moon through the slats in the roof above him, and he thought maybe it was okay. He needed to get out of there.

Summoning all the bravery he had, he looked down again. There was nothing, just the familiar outlines of the old farm machinery. He took a long time to look, trying to make sure he was alone, before he even pushed himself up off his belly. He knelt, watching again for what felt like forever. Then he swallowed through a painfully dry throat and just _moved_. He was down the hidden ladder of debris as quickly and carefully as he could be, nearly losing his footing a couple of times as he panicked. Then his worn tennis shoes struck the dusty ground and he ran through the door.

And right into someone.

Hands closed over his shoulders, stopping him immediately in his tracks. The warden's face was hideous and wicked in the moonlight. He was a monster, but he was so very calm, and his eyes were dead. "I know you saw," he said in a low gentle voice. It was the same voice he used all the time, when he was making his announcements, when Clint had gotten into trouble and was listening to his punishment, when he was chatting amiably with the other staff. "If you ever say a word about it, I will kill you and your brother." There was a thoughtful sound. A large hand petting his hair. "So be a good boy. Go back and go to bed and dream nice dreams. Remember: I'm watching you."

He let go, and Clint ran. He ran hard and fast, faster than he ever had before, his legs pumping and his lungs straining and everything blurred by tears. He slipped back through the rear entrance, not caring so much that he was stealthy, just desperate to get away. To escape. He didn't remember how he got past the nurse's station, didn't remember how he'd made it down the long, shadowy hallways. He didn't remember anything until he was back in their room. He climbed up into Barney's bunk.

"Barney," he whispered. His brother was fast asleep, snoring softly. He shook him in a frenzy. "Barney, wake up!"

The other boy groaned and opened hazy eyes. "… the hell? Clint?"

Clint choked down a sob. He didn't care what the warden had said. It all burned at his lips, and he was so scared. He wanted Barney to tell him it was going to be okay. He wanted it to be okay. "I saw… I shouldn't have… but I saw – I saw…"

"What's the matter?"

But he couldn't say it. Those dead eyes were staring at him. Into him. Barney's face fractured in sleepy anger. "You weren't in the barn again, were you? Damn it, buddy, you know what will happen if they find out you keep breaking curfew. They could send you away from me." Barney seemed oblivious to the tears on his cheeks, to the dirt and dust clinging to his clothes, to _everything_. But he grabbed Clint and pulled him down into a hug. "Go to sleep. It's okay. I got you. We'll get out of here," he whispered, and then he was snoring again.

He tried, but he couldn't because he'd let those horrible things happen to the kid with the red shoes. And everything started to hurt, his knee where he'd banged it on something on the way down from the loft, his head because the sounds and the images wouldn't _go away_, his heart… It hurt and hurt and _hurt…_

_ "__¿__Est__á__s bien?"_

It took him a minute to realize he wasn't a kid anymore. He struggled away from dream and memory and tried to open eyes that seemed glued shut. When he did, he saw brown spinning nauseatingly overhead and a blurry face. "What?" he whispered. His voice sounded strangled and weak and alien to his ears.

The face over him belonged to a young woman with abundant chocolate hair and kind, worried eyes. She shushed him gently, and something cool brushed over his sweaty forehead. "_No hables. Necesitas descansar._"

He closed his eyes and struggled to make sense of his jumbled mess of memories. The pain struck him then, and helped him recall _exactly_ what had befallen him. His shoulder ached furiously where he'd been shot. He managed to lift himself a little and saw strips of clean, brown cotton wrapped around the wound. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, and his mouth was so dry he could hardly move his tongue. Worse than all of this, though, was the throbbing, pulsing, _agonizing_ lump attached to his body where his right leg should have been. "Where am I?" he asked. He flashed wild eyes at her, unable to control his panic. "Who are you?"

The woman looked a little frightened and very concerned. She looked at a young girl he hadn't noticed before, speaking to her rapidly in Spanish, and the child scurried away. The woman turned back to him, shushing him tenderly. "_Espera_," she implored softly. "_Espera_."

Clint did because he had no choice, but the pain was unbearable. He suffered with little awareness of what was happening around him, only that the woman at his side was tenderly wiping his head with the cool cloth and whispering comfort to him. It seemed to last forever, this fiery hell, and he could only breathe through his distress and pray for it to end. Water tipped into his mouth and he weakly drank. "_Mas despacio_," she said.

"_Grac__í__as_," he whispered. Obviously whoever these people were, they didn't mean him harm. At least, he hoped not. It was hard to think with everything hurting so terribly.

There was the sound of footsteps, and when he opened his eyes again, Steve's blurry face loomed over him, the child standing beside him. Tremendous relief washed over his hapless form, and he shivered. Rogers offered a worried, tight smile. "Welcome back," he said, grasping Clint's uninjured shoulder gently. The sight of his teammate was enough to nearly strip him of the remainder of his strength, and unconsciousness swooped in, pressing tenaciously. He couldn't hold on anymore. The pain was crippling. He barely felt a prick on his arm. "This'll help."

He didn't make sense of that, or anything else, for a few more excruciating minutes. But then it did help. The pain became softer, less insistent, distant. There was warmth rolling over his battered body, warmth that was a welcome barrier between himself and the hurt. He opened his eyes again, breathing slower. His heart was no longer pounding. "Thanks," he managed, focusing again on Steve. It was much easier now.

The other man winced a little. "Enjoy it because that's all we have."

With the pain quieter, he could actually process his surroundings, actually _think_. He quickly took stock the situation. They were in some sort of hut, the roof and walls made of thatched wood and sod and mud. He was lying on his back on a pallet of fairly clean blankets. The air was hot and smelled very damp. Miserably he realized that they were still in the rainforest. Other than that, everything was a haze of pain and shock. "What happened?" he asked.

"You got shot and fell in the river. You almost drowned," Steve said quietly. He looked haggard, his eyes weary and his face dirty. A few days' worth of stubble covered his jaw, more than Clint remembered.

"How long?" he asked, licking his lips.

Steve took the water from the woman and helped him drink again. He gulped it down greedily and immediately regretted it when a fit of coughing consumed him that left him breathless and aching and dizzy. "Easy, alright? You're in bad shape. I didn't think you would make it. I found us some help and we did all we could, but… It's not good."

The painkillers made it easy to deal with that, even if the fear shining in Captain America's normally stoic eyes and the sad state of his body were quite the cause for despair. "How bad?"

Steve hesitated a moment. "You've been down with a fever for more than two days, Clint. I – I was afraid you wouldn't wake up."

That didn't make sense. Two days? Impossible. But the worry plastered all over Rogers' face seemed _very_ real, and he doubted Steve would lie. Didn't even know if he was capable of it. Clint groaned and fought the press of pain and grief. "My leg?" he whispered.

Another long second of anxiety-riddled silence. Then Steve shook his head. "It's not good," he repeated.

Clint clenched his eyes shut, tears escaping them against his will. He jabbed his teeth into his lower lip until the bitter warmth of blood spilled onto his tongue. "Sorry," he gasped out. "Shoulda told you."

Steve grabbed his hand, squeezing tightly. "Yeah," he agreed. "Well, you weren't the only one who made mistakes. If I'd been paying better attention, looked at the map… Let's not rip ourselves up over it. Water under the bridge, right?"

That was enough to pull Clint back from the brink of succumbing to the dark, dismal swirl of emotions inside. He didn't know if Steve was admitting to his mistake just to make him feel better, but he found he really didn't care. He breathed long and hard for a moment, calming his tattered heart. Then, when everything seemed a little more normal, Clint opened his eyes again. The two women were gone and Steve was taking a look at the bloody bandage around his thigh. "Why didn't you?" Clint asked, gazing up at the shadowy brown ceiling.

"Why didn't I what?"

"Look at the map."

Rogers didn't say anything, taking the swatch from his forehead. He dunked a few more strips of cloth into a clay bowl on the floor beside Clint's pallet and pulled them out. He wrung the excess before arranging them on the archer's bare chest and brow. "I should have. But I was… I guess I was angry. Hurt you were so against having me come with you. It was stupid and childish, but my ego got a little bruised. Guess I was used to being in charge, you know? Having people looking to me to figure out what needed to be done. Back in New York, it all seemed so natural. But you weren't, and that smarted. And if you didn't want my help, then it didn't matter what I did." He met Clint's gaze then. "Sorry."

Clint grimaced and gasped as Steve pulled some sort of bloody poultice away from the wound. He wasn't brave enough to look at the pulsating area on his leg, let alone watch, as Steve went about changing the dressing. "It wasn't about you specifically," he said in a strained voice, figuring that talking was better than not and suffering in silence. "Just don't like partners."

"What about Agent Romanoff? I thought you two were…"

"No," Clint said. He started rambling a bit. Morphine always made him a little loopy. "She and I work together because we're good at it. We understand each other. I like to handle things myself, and I don't stop to think about the consequences. She's the same way. It's what we were trained to do. To go in and get the job done. I take out my mark, no matter what. You and I… we're not made of the same stuff."

Steve didn't argue with that. He was quiet, wiping at the injury tenderly and carefully, his brow furrowed. Clint fought not to be sick with every swipe of that cloth (which felt like scratchy burlap when it touched his raggedly torn flesh and damaged nerves). They were silent, and the minutes lethargically crept away. The analgesic had done wonders to alleviate the worst of the pain, but Clint was still gasping and groaning as Steve worked on his infected leg. When it was over, he lay back against the scratchy blankets beneath him and tried to quell the vertigo. "What about Vargas' men?" he asked.

"Not sure," Steve answered, wiping his hands and then leaning back on his heels. He looked around, squinting a little. "Maybe they think we're dead, but with our luck I doubt it. But it's a moot point. You couldn't be moved, and these people were kind enough to take us in. I don't understand most of what they say, but I'm pretty sure they've got no love for Vargas. I think he and his men have raided their village, killed some of them. I don't know. Like I said, I don't understand Spanish." He sighed. "It was a good thing they found us." He didn't sound sure of it. He looked exhausted and concerned. Despite his scattered thoughts, Clint immediately reasoned why. If Vargas and his thugs were still looking for them, it was only a matter of time before they came here. Clint was aware of the atrocities committed against the village folk in this region. They made their living through hunting and fishing along the rivers. Missionaries had brought Spanish to them, but they were fairly primitive and detached from the modern world. And they were more often than not the victims of drug lords, human traffickers, and guerillas. They were unfortunates, innocents caught in the crossfire, victimized by the rich and violent and powerful. And Steve was right to be worried. If Vargas got some sort of hint they were alive and hiding here, they would endanger the very people who'd saved them.

He thought of those poor folk Vargas had used as guinea pigs for his newly acquired Chitauri weapons and felt rage rush through him again. Sheep brought to the slaughter.

"It doesn't matter at the moment. We can't go anywhere until you're better, so here's hoping they've given up."

_Until I'm better_. Clint wasn't sure if Steve was just deluding himself, but if his leg was festering, he wasn't going to get better. And if the infection spread to his blood, attacking his body, he would die of septic shock unless they amputated it. It would become systemic, and then it would become a choice between his leg or his life. He wasn't a soldier, but he knew the basics of emergency first aid. And he wasn't a moron. They were far from help, from doctors and hospitals and sterile equipment and antibiotics, and it was only a matter of time. The outlook was grim.

It was horrifying and he didn't want to think about it. He looked at Steve again, at his filthy, blood-stained uniform. "What about you?"

He knew the answer even before the other man spoke. It was amazing and obvious and utterly _unfair_. "I'm alright. It's healing." Steve should have died. But he hadn't, because he was Captain America and was built to take the hits. Clint couldn't help the spite filling his heart, even though he knew it was wrong, and he closed his eyes and looked away and wanted to be alone. It was silent for a long time as Steve went about working on his shoulder. Clint tried to ignore it all, grief staining his heart and leaving him battling the sobs he trapped his throat. Suddenly, as bleak as everything seemed before, he knew they really had no hope.

At least he didn't. They'd never get help in time to salvage his leg.

He pushed it all away and tried not to think.

"Who's Barney?"

He must have been dozing, because the question surprised him. His eyes opened and he regarded the other man warily. Steve shook his head apologetically, only genuine interest and concern in his gaze. "You've been talking in your sleep."

_Shit_. He didn't say anything, wouldn't say anything, because he'd never really told anybody about his past and he wasn't about to tell Steve Rogers. That damn memory… He hadn't thought about that in years. Locked it up and thrown away the damn key. But as he lay there, the ghost of it all drifting about the edges of his thoughts, he realized why he'd lost it back at the base. Maybe some part of him had known it all along, and that was why he'd had this nightmare about a memory from too long ago that he'd long thought settled. And then he clammed up even tighter and tried to ignore the fury and sorrow and self-hatred welling up inside him.

Steve noticed his hesitation, his discomfort. He had done a poor job hiding it, after all. "Look, I know you said this isn't the time or place, but we're not going anywhere for the time being. I don't know you all that well, but I get the impression that you keep it all in check, play your hand close to your chest. You don't fly off the handle, but something back there bothered you bad enough to shoot the mission to hell. So if you want to talk, I'll listen." The soldier said all of this with fake confidence, like he was apprehensive about it all, too. He probably was. Clint knew Steve cared, but he wasn't comfortable about putting himself out in the open, either.

Those red shoes flashed in his mind's eye, and he sighed, struggling to keep his emotions under control. Normally he was so cool, so serene, so patient. But he just couldn't manage it now. Everything hurt too much. "Barney was my older brother," he finally said, his voice surprisingly stable given the storm of emotion and memory intent on destroying his composure. He thought of Barney's face, brown eyes and dirty blond hair and a boxy jaw. "You remind me of him sometimes."

Steve wasn't sure how to take that. "How come?"

"He was a good guy. Always wanted to be. Joined the army. Wanted me to join with him." Clint shook his head, wincing as the pain in his leg ramped up again. He decided that he wouldn't surrender to it or to anything else. "Ended up in the FBI."

He didn't tell Steve why he really reminded him of Barney. It was mean, and Steve didn't deserve it. But it was true. Steve was right all the time. Steve was perfect. And Barney had been, too, in his young and naïve eyes. Barney had never accepted his choices, never believed he knew what was right from what was wrong, never trusted him to find his own way. Barney had always judged him, confident that he knew best even when he didn't. And Steve really wasn't like that. This feeling of inadequacy that he really hadn't realized until that moment… that was of his own creation. But he still couldn't shake it. And he wasn't about to hurt Rogers just because he wasn't man enough to get over his brother's ancient disappointment in him. It was another lifetime ago.

This was why he didn't talk about his feelings. _Damned if you, damned if you don't._

"Is he dead?" Steve asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

"What? Oh. Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

Clint shrugged. "He took care of me when our parents died. My dad… well, he was a vicious son of a bitch. Drunk all the time. He used to beat on us, especially on Barney, and my mom tried to protect us but she was depressed all the time. One night he took her out, and they never came back. He got wasted at dinner and killed them both on the road."

Steve's face fell further. His eyes filled with true sympathy. "I'm sorry," he said again, this time even softer and more heartfelt. "How old were you?"

Clint didn't stop. If he paused, he knew he'd lose his nerve. "Eight. Barney was twelve. We ended up in this children's home outside Des Moines. Seemed like a nice enough place on the outside. But…" And now it came to it. Some of this he'd told Natasha once. Some of it, but not all of it. He didn't like to feel exposed or vulnerable. He was a sniper; he lived for cover, for control, for keeping everything tight and ready.

However, Steve watched him so openly that he knew if he was ever going to let this go, now was his chance. Steve wouldn't judge him. Steve _wasn't_ Barney. "One night I saw the warden molesting one of the other kids. Bastard murdered him in cold blood. It was like hell… I watched, but I couldn't do anything. I was too scared. I didn't think he knew I was there, and as long as I didn't move to try to stop it, he wouldn't find me." Steve looked horrified. "But he did. And then he threatened me, told me if I ever said anything he'd come after me or Barney. I don't know why he let me go. I suppose I wasn't his type. He was a sick bastard.

"He spent the next six years of my life torturing me. Other kids went missing. I knew it was him. The morning after it got into the papers that another poor orphan had run away from the home, he always found me. Smiled that sick smile he had, told us all not to worry, that running away wasn't the answer. We needed to stay there where it was safe. It was never safe there. So many times I wanted to tell someone. But I never did. I was too scared of him to stop it. I was too scared to tell Barney even. I hated it there, hated that I was such a goddamn coward, but…" Clint closed his eyes, trying to forget anew the warden's deadened gaze and hungry voice. "I knew if I ever opened my mouth, he'd _know_ it was me. He'd do to me what he'd done to them."

The silence that followed was heavy and laden with grief. Steve was pale, shaking his head slightly. Eventually he found it within himself to say something. "It wasn't your fault. You were just a kid."

Clint grunted. "The hell it wasn't. But it didn't matter. We got out of there, ran away… Barney left me to go serve his country. And when SHIELD found me, I got a new life. I went back there years later. He was an old bastard by then. He never saw me coming. Made it right." He remembered the dark office, those dead eyes wide with tears and desperation, and that calm, evil voice pinched in terror. The gun had been smooth in his hand, and he'd never wavered. He had tried to tell himself that it had been for the kid with the red shoes and all the kids after that that he hadn't saved. He tried to tell himself that he was saving future victims, but the warden had been an old man when he'd come back. He tried to tell himself it wasn't vengeance, but it was. "Made it right."

That was the sort of thing that a good guy, a _hero_, like Steve Rogers would never understand. Clint chanced looking at him and saw it in his eyes. Confusion. Disgust maybe. He couldn't stand holding the other man's gaze, so he closed his eyes and breathed through the pain and tried to forget it all again.

Steve was smart and perceptive, even though Stark joked all the time about how dense he was. "Is that what this was about? Making it right?"

Clint thought about those kids, crying and terrified and panicked, as Vargas' men had turned the Chitauri weapons on them. They'd never even had a chance to scream, wiped away into nothingness. Gone, like they had never existed. Like the kids that had died because he had been too weak and scared to stop it. Gone. _Gone_. "I don't know. I couldn't stand by and let him kill innocent people because they were convenient targets. You didn't see it. You don't know."

"Clint, I spent two years of my life fighting Nazi Germany. I know better than anyone." Clint opened his eyes and looked at his teammate. Steve's jaw was set, but behind his firm gaze, there were horrors, too. Things _he'd_ seen that couldn't be erased. Things that had changed him, drove him onward. His own regrets. "You need to trust me. I can help you."

Tears burned his eyes again, and his leg hurt and hurt. He was tired. Very tired. He'd never felt so low. "I know."

"Maybe we're not made of the same stuff. That doesn't mean we can't understand each other."

That made him smile a little. "I know." Then the question prodded at his lips, even though his meager hold on consciousness was weakening. Exhaustion hauled him back toward oblivion, but he stubbornly fought it. "What would you have done? If you saw what I saw?"

He'd never said exactly what he'd seen in the base. But it wasn't necessary. Steve understood. "I don't know. But I wouldn't have walked away."

That was good enough. Maybe not absolution, but good enough. Steve laid a huge hand on his forehead. "Sleep while the pain meds last. You need to get your strength back up. I'll watch our backs. We're getting out of this and getting you help." And that was that. Steve hadn't tried to wipe it away or offer empty condolences. No shallow solace or an effort to alleviate the darkness of it all. The demons had sprung from his past, and Steve hadn't downplayed it or attempted to stand between him and his monsters. He'd just accepted.

_Water under the bridge_. Clint slept, and he didn't dream.

* * *

_¿__Est__á__s bien? – _Are you okay?

_No hables. Necesitas descansar. – _Don't speak. You need to rest.

_Espera – _Hold on.

_Mas despacio_ – Slower.

_Grac__í__as – _Thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**7**

They'd been rescued by the Piapoco. This particular village was located close to the river and the people predominately fished, though they actively traded with other villages across the river in the Llanos for corn and other crops. About one hundred of them lived in the tiny settlement, but the empty huts and burned remnants of homes suggested there were once quite a few more. Clint got the impression they weren't terribly trusting, but Steve (despite his obvious inability to really communicate with them) had won them over. They seemed to recognize the American star on his uniform, and the red, white, and blue, and they might not have known who he was but that symbol was recognizable. More than that, though, his care for Clint and the help he'd given them over the last couple of days had been enough to convince them that he was not a threat to them.

With the help of Esperanza (the young woman whose hut he'd unceremoniously taken over), he limped outside and saw the sun for the first time in what he was told was days. He squinted, wavering with the sudden sharp ache in his head, but she held fast and didn't let him fall or stress his bad leg. She was a sweet girl, recently having lost most of her family when Vargas' latest raid into their lands had resulted in their deaths. Her younger sister was the only one left. She had cared for Clint like he was more to her than a stranger, and he was grateful for that. He was sure without her, without all of them, he would have died already.

He made it to the rickety chair under an awning made of sod and palm leaves. It shielded him a bit from the sun and bugs, and she helped him sit, careful to keep his weight off of his leg. She smiled at him and gave him a gourd full of some sort of sweet nectar-like beverage. He was pretty sure there was alcohol in it, because drinking enough of it eased his pain. It was thick and coated his mouth and throat uncomfortably, but the analgesic effects were welcomed. Aside from a few foul tasting leaves the medicine man had given him to chew, he'd been without pain relief for most of the day.

The Amazon was the same as he remembered. Hot and wet and miserable. He never felt dry anymore. His wounds aside, he was never comfortable. Everything was itchy and sticky against his skin, and he had more than enough bug bites to last him the rest of his life. He tried not to be bothered by it all, but his senses were on overload. The pain in his leg seemed to have jolted every nerve in his body with unrelenting sensitivity. He wanted to sleep, but Esperanza had suggested he get fresh air and sun. She was worried, and he didn't fault her. He knew he looked sick and pale and weak.

"_¿__Necesitas algo?_" she asked.

"_No. Grac__í__as_." He tried to relax, and she remained close, hovering. He watched the village, getting a good look at it for the first time. It was very small, nothing more than huts and shacks surrounding muddy roads. The rainforest had barely pulled away from the area, the trees hanging over their homes and the vegetation continually encroaching. Most of the huts were small lumps of gray and brown, not unlike the one in which he'd spent the last few days. Some of the larger structures had metal plates (probably scraps procured from traders who occasionally passed on the river) bolstering their walls and ceilings. Most of the people had well-worn clothes that spoke of hard work and poverty. There was not a scrap of technology in sight; Clint was surprised at how unusual and unnerving that was.

He watched as a few children ran to Steve, who was returning from the forest beyond. They shouted to him, and he smiled as they crowded him. Clint couldn't understand all they were saying; the Piapoco spoke something of a combination of their own native tongue and Spanish, and though he was fluent in the latter, the former was difficult to catch. Steve figured out what they wanted, however, putting both his arms out forward and letting four or five of them grab onto them. He lifted them like they were nothing, and they clung as he raised them up and down, laughing. "_Tu amigo es muy fuerte_," Esperanza declared, shaking her head a little with half a smile on her face as she watched.

Clint wondered how in the world Captain America had gotten so chummy with the natives. "_S__í__. Es soldado._"

"_Lo s__é_," she responded. "_Se preocupa por ti._"

Clint watched Steve entertain the kids a moment more. Some skittered away, laughing, running to their parents. Others held on as Steve made a mock contest of trying to shake them off. He'd heard Coulson go on and on about Captain America when SHIELD had found him frozen deep in the icy wastelands of Greenland. Coulson's incessant hero worship had gotten on everyone's nerves, and Clint had just quietly endured the older agent's barely restrained excitement, figuring there was no way Steve Rogers could _possibly_ be as good as Coulson believed. He knew now more than ever that he was.

Phil Coulson had believed in heroes, in always doing what was right and moral even though SHIELD didn't. Clint was starting to realize how far from that mark he truly was. He was a spy. An assassin. Not a hero. He'd never wanted to become one, never had had the courage to become one, until he'd joined the Avengers. Romanoff said she had red in her ledger. He knew he did, too, and maybe it was too much to ever allow him to be someone that Coulson would have idolized.

Steve eventually managed to untangle himself from the kids and spotted Clint. He made his way across the collection of huts, and Clint noticed immediately that his eyes were worried and his expression was serious. He nodded a greeting to both Clint and Esperanza, and the young woman took her leave. She hadn't missed the tense concern splayed across Rogers' features either.

Steve sat on the ground beside Clint heavily, sighing and bending his knees to rest his elbows on them. He gazed around the town, squinting in the bright sunlight. "Vargas' men are west about ten miles away and heading closer."

He said this so matter-of-factly, so calmly, that for a moment Clint's hazy mind didn't quite grasp the enormity of his words. Then fear settled in the pit of his already upset stomach, and the world spun as his heart (which seemed perpetually hammering against his breastbone) quickened its pace. "How do you know?"

"I saw them. Climbed a tree out there." Those trees looked to be over a hundred feet high. Just glancing at the towering canopies made Clint dizzy. "They're looking for us along the river. Obviously something convinced them we're alive. Probably found our tracks. I'm not as skilled as you are at hiding. Sorry."

"Not much we can do about it now," Clint muttered. His head began pounding again, and the vertigo left him queasy. He tried to conceal how ill he was, but he didn't fool himself, let alone Steve.

"How bad is it?" the soldier asked.

"Infection's spreading." His voice was pinched in pain but surprisingly level. Like this wasn't serious. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like gangrene wasn't eating away at the skin and muscles of his leg and poisoning his blood and threatening his life. Clint shakily raised his hand and wiped at the sweat (and tears, but he wouldn't admit that) burning his eyes. He took another sip of the drink just to taste something other than old blood and sickness, just to ease the pressure at the back of his throat.

Steve saw through his mask of indifference. "We can't stay here. If Vargas finds us, he'll kill everyone." His blue eyes flitted across the innocents in this village, innocents that had been abused and battered and butchered in the past. The thought of these people dying on their account was disturbing.

"Do you really think leaving is going to protect them? We stand a better chance of doing that if we stay here."

"We're severely outnumbered. There's no way we can take all of them. I counted at least fifty men, if not more." Clint closed his eyes. Fifty men, fifty trained mercenaries, against a handful of natives armed with primitive weapons. These people were poor, and they fought mainly with spears and bows and arrows, though they did have a moderate supply of outdated rifles. Their armaments might as well have been sticks and stones against Vargas and all the modern military technology drug money could buy. If it came down to a fight, they'd probably be more of an impediment than an ally.

"What then?"

"I'll carry you," Steve responded firmly.

"All the way out of the rainforest? I won't last a day out there like this." Clint's voice was solemn, not accusing. Even still, Steve looked ashamed and frustrated.

Then it came to it. The thing neither of them wanted to admit, hadn't admitted over the last day, at least not to each other. And not to themselves. Even if they could somehow escape the rainforest, cross the river, and reach the tropical plains of the Llanos, there was no telling how far and long they would have to travel to find adequate medical care for Clint. The risks were astronomical, and the odds were bleak. By the time they found help, the infection in his leg would devour him.

Clint swallowed and tried not to succumb to the press of despair. He leaned back in the rickety chair, feeling exhaustion press upon again. Fever swirled continually in his head, making it difficult to focus. But he knew the truth. He rested his right hand on his thigh, on the miserable, throbbing limb swollen with disease. "You gotta take my leg."

"No," Steve said adamantly.

"Don't treat me like a kid, Cap. I know my chances. The longer this goes on, the worse things are going to get. It's the only option."

Steve wasn't convinced. "You think you'll have a better chance out there if we cut your leg off?" he hotly asked, obviously trying to keep his temper in check. "And how, exactly, does this do anything to help with the immediate problem? I can't deal with Vargas with you bleeding out…" The thought bothered him and he trailed off, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "We don't have anything for the pain, let alone the antibiotics, to do that safely. Amputation is no guarantee of anything."

"You never did it in the field? Back in the war?"

He paled as though he was caught in a lie. "Back in the war there were docs waiting at base."

Clint was too tired and ill to argue. "I'd rather live and be down a leg than die here."

Steve didn't say anything to that. He wasn't going to agree; that much was clear. Maybe that was a good thing. Frankly, Clint was so weary and woozy that he wasn't sure what the best option was, let alone what he wanted. He wanted his leg to stop hurting like a knife was digging into his flesh and scraping at his bones. He wanted to stop the fever that was rendering his senses useless and his brain a horrible, pulsing lump. He wanted to be free of this hell, but he was pretty sure his impulsive choice back at the base nearly a week ago had doomed him. He couldn't think straight anymore. He just itched to do _something_, to make a choice and be done with it because suffering slowly was torture of the worst sort.

He wanted this to end, and he was starting to not care how so long as Steve escaped and the agony stopped.

"It doesn't matter right now," Steve finally declared, darting a forceful glare at Clint as though challenging him to question that. "If we're staying, we need to figure out how we're going to defend this place. And if we're going, we need to get going, because we're running out of time. They could be here by nightfall."

There didn't seem to be much point in deciding. It had been the depressing theme of this entire hellish escapade. No matter what they did, they were screwed. However, the thought of running again, of struggling through the rainforest and crossing the river and plunging into the unknown north, was suddenly entirely unappealing. "This is it," he surmised sadly. "Not sure if it gets us anything."

"SHIELD has to be wondering what happened to us by now. Maybe we can send Vargas enough of a message to buy some time." Steve shook his head. "No matter what he'll come here. They'll find out we've been here." The thought of what would happen to these kind people was nauseating. Vargas would probably tear this village apart. There would be no mercy. "I don't know, Clint. I'm out of ideas."

"Can we protect them?"

"You need to convince them to get out of here," Steve answered. "At least the women and children. If they go now, they'll have a head start on Vargas' men. There are probably other settlements around here or across the river." He sighed, looking out over the town. "We'll have the element of surprise at least. Do you think you'll be able to fight?"

Honestly, no. He was having a difficult time focusing with the fever and infection. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. And his leg was totally useless; it couldn't hold his weight at all. But he could make himself try. So he nodded.

"They'll come from over there, from the west. If we post you over there, on top of that hut, they might not be able see you," Steve said, gesturing to a building a little down the way. It was one that was better fortified with steel plates on the sides and roof. It would support his weight, and he would have a good view of most of the settlement and the forest beyond. The village was situated down a gradual decline, nestled against the river. Though the hill was more to the south than the west, he would be able to see Vargas' men as they approached. "How many shots do you have?"

"Enough," Clint simply answered. Whether or not he'd be able to make good use of them, he didn't know.

"We'll wait until they're in the village proper so maybe we can perform something of an ambush. Hopefully kill a few before the reinforcements are called up. I don't know."

"Will the people be willing to abandon their homes?"

"Convince them. Tell them what's coming. They've already lost enough of their own to Vargas' whims. I would have to think they'd want to avoid anyone else dying. If some of the men stay, we'll have a better chance of whittling down some of the soldiers."

This was bad plan, and Clint knew it. It was the best they could do, but it reeked of a final stand, of a last resort. The two of them entrenched in this village with the weapons they had could maybe do some damage, but it wouldn't be enough to be victorious. And with the river pressed to their backs, there wouldn't be an easy escape. Clint couldn't swim and couldn't run. Hell, he couldn't walk. If it came to it, he knew Steve wouldn't leave him. Whatever happened to one of them would happen to both of them.

It was sad, really, but comforting.

* * *

By late afternoon, most of the village folk had fled. They seemed grateful to simply have the warning this time, listening with wide eyes and pale faces as Clint stood, supported by Steve, before the assembled group and told them what was coming. After that there had been a flurry of frantic activity as they quickly gathered up their meager belongings and tucked their children close before heading further east or northward across the river. The massive body of water was far too wide to swim, so they took what few boats and canoes they had and paddled away. They were afraid, rightfully so, and not strong enough to remain behind with the damned. Even Esperanza and her sister took their leave, watching him as their boat drifted out into the river with wide eyes and pained faces. Clint observed sadly until he couldn't see them anymore. She had been a sweet girl, and he wanted no harm to come to her. He couldn't forget the look of horror, of grief and pity, they'd given him. He was afraid, too, and the choice to retreat wasn't available to him.

A dozen or so men stayed behind. They had anger in their eyes. They were unrefined and untrained and unhinged. They were fodder and nothing more. Clint wished Steve would send them away with the others; they stood no chance against the type of enemy approaching. But they were stubborn and willing to fight at least. Clint didn't foresee any of them lasting very long.

He waited, checking and rechecking his bow and quiver. His own bow was gone, so he was making do with one from the villagers. It wasn't as strong or as powerful, so its range was far less than what he was used to, but it would suffice. He had thirty shafts and arrowheads left. Two of these were designed to ignite explosively upon impact. He also had a few homing shots, which he had brought in the event they needed to track Vargas' shipment of the Chitauri weapons. The arrowheads were equipped with homing beacons that could be activated through his bow, but the range was pretty limited and his bow was missing. And in this situation they were fairly useless, anyway. He wished he had brought more offensive weapons, but he hadn't anticipated everything going quite so bad. He'd burned through most of his fancier stuff when he'd taken out the base. He sincerely hoped the Cap had some other plan than to just lay in wait and pray for the best.

It didn't seem that way. With Clint translating, Steve positioned the men willing to fight around the town in the cover of their huts and the trees. There they would hide, bows and rifles at the ready, until Rogers gave the signal. Once a fair (but hopefully a significantly large) number of Vargas' men had wandered into their trap, Steve would toss a couple of their concussion grenades at their enemies and cause massive casualties with any luck. After that, they would attack those that remained while trying to maintain cover enough to protect themselves. If it weren't for the sheer number coming toward them, this might have worked. But even if they could somehow kill the majority or enough of Vargas' soldiers to force a retreat, it would be a temporary victory. The soldiers would regroup and return. They'd be in the same boat tomorrow, only with no ammunition and less time to potentially stop the gangrene in Clint's leg from killing him. This wasn't a scouting force coming toward them. Fifty men could only mean one thing: Vargas was trying to kill or capture Captain America. That meant Vargas knew who they were.

Clint figured Steve had come to the same conclusion. But neither of them mentioned it. There didn't seem to be much reason to. At this point it was incidental.

As the men readied themselves, Steve helped Clint limp over to his place. The hut was something of a split-level, with the larger, wider part about eight feet from the ground and the other section, which was closer to the hill, perhaps ten feet high. Steve helped Clint secure his quiver and handed him the bow. Then he lifted the smaller man. Clint grabbed the roof, avoiding the rusty spots, and tried to haul himself upward. The pain was miserable, and for a moment he didn't think he could do it. But Steve pushed his good leg, giving him purchase, and then he rolled onto the roof.

He lay on his side, gasping and grabbing at his injured leg. He could picture the wound beneath the torn black fabric of his pants, the skin burnt and blistered and bleeding. Lines of red, of poisoned blood, spread from the hole in this thigh, like crimson spider webs under his skin. The medicine man had coated it thickly in some sort of salve that could save flesh and reduce pain. Clint didn't think it was doing much to help, but he was willing to hope in anything at this point, placebo or not.

"You okay?" Steve called from below.

Clint wiped at his eyes and squirmed toward the edge. He met Rogers' gaze. "As much as I can be."

The super soldier wasn't convinced, but there wasn't anything to be done for it so he didn't say more about it. He handed Clint a handgun, a slew of clips, and one of the shotguns. He also gave the archer two of the concussion grenades. Clint rolled onto his back as much as his quiver and damaged body would allow and loaded the guns. Then Steve gave him his ear communicator and he put it in and turned it on.

The two men stared at each for a moment. "I'm okay," Clint insisted.

"Protect the east side if you can. It's the best option for retreat."

Clint nodded. "Got it."

"If things go to hell, you stay down," Steve blurted out then.

Clint grunted bitterly. "You mean when, not if."

"I'm serious, Barton." He was. His eyes shone in worry and trepidation, and his jaw was clenched. "You stay down. If you don't want to follow orders from a CO then abide by the wishes of a friend. Please."

A slew of tears sprung to his eyes, and he roughly blinked them away. He rarely felt so out of control of his emotions, but his heart and body were raw and suffering, and he couldn't manage his normal equanimity. "Is that what we are now, Cap? Friends?"

"You bet. So stay safe." He walked away then and went about assuring the remaining villagers that they were as ready as they could be, and they seemed comforted even if they didn't entirely understand him. They went to their places. Steve offered them all a confident nod and then launched himself up into one of the trees towering over the village. Agilely he climbed, carrying the other shotgun, the AK-47, and the remainder of the grenades. He found a branch that was obscured from distant eyes; Clint could barely see him. And then they waited.

It was hot and quiet. Aside from the squawks of distant birds and the swishing of the river behind them, the rainforest was still and serene. Clint lay on his belly as close as he could to the second level of the hut. He held his bow tightly, continually scanning the trees ahead of them for signs of activity. As the tense minutes bled away, his energy began to wane. The fever sucked him dry of strength and concentration. He breathed slowly and heavily, the heat and humidity only adding to his discomfort, and he found his eyes drifting shut on more than one occasion. At least once Steve noticed. "You alright, Hawkeye?" came the quiet question in his ear.

He jerked himself awake. "Yeah," Clint responded, angry with himself for his lapse. He was fatigued and dizzy, but Rogers didn't need to know how poorly their eye on the situation was faring. He gritted his teeth, finding more of those godawful leaves in the inner pocket of his vest and stuffing them in his mouth. At least the putrid taste might keep him awake.

A seeming eternity passed. The village still and silent. Dead. It was late afternoon before Clint caught the first sign of Vargas' soldiers. The forest to the west betrayed them, smaller trees and bushes shaking with unusual and very human-like movement. Clint watched a moment more just to be certain, narrowing his eyes. The first black-clad form appeared among the leaves. Others followed in a second. "Hostiles sighted," he murmured, trying to calm his erratically pounding heart. "West. Twelve."

"Roger," Steve responded.

It wasn't long before twelve became twenty and then twenty-five. The soldiers weren't making any effort to conceal their approach, chatting and shouting. _Why should they? They've terrorized these people before and never met any resistance. At least we'll kick the crap out of them before it's done. Maybe they'll think twice next time._ The anger, the need for vengeance, energized him, and suddenly it was easier to find that place inside where he could concentrate, where there was no pain or fear or hesitation. The misery of his body was far away. "Coming toward you."

Vargas' men ambled closer, not even bothering to raise their guns as they entered the village. Clint could hear them talking, radios crackling with numerous voices. Eventually the leads of the group realized something wasn't right. They slowed as they looked around suspiciously. One of the men commented that there seemed to be no one present. A few others laughed and made some haughty cracks that they'd finally scared the villagers off. More and more of the men filtered in and began searching, lazily poking their guns in the huts. Clint could only hope the hidden villagers followed directions and stayed still.

Finally, after an excruciating eternity of waiting and praying nobody moved too soon, about fifteen of the soldiers were clustered in the village's central area, conversing about what to do next. They wouldn't get a better shot, and a quick glance to the west revealed more men coming. "Go, Cap," Clint lowly said.

A breath later the grenade seemingly fell from the sky and rolled into the group. They had no chance to react. The explosion was powerful and deafening, the shock wave rattling the huts and shaking the nearby trees. The soldiers fell, screaming. But before those that survived even moved away from the blast radius, another grenade tumbled down. The second explosion came nearly on top of the first, and when the boom faded, a dozen men lay dead.

Then all hell broke loose.

The villagers sprung from their hiding places, guns firing and arrows flying. Steve jumped down from the tree and landed like a cat despite the distance, rolling forward and bringing the AK-47 to bear. The crackle of gunfire erupted. Clint saw a flood of black race from the trees. He leaned up, nocked one of the arrows with an explosive tip, and fired into the advancing group. His shot was true, striking the middle soldier in the chest, and the resulting detonation brought them all down. But there were more behind, firing at the village with abandon.

Clint grabbed more arrows and fired again and again. The men fell in their charge before they wisely started to take cover. Clint ducked as bullets struck the metal roof with resounding clangs, wincing and tucking his limbs into his body as tightly as he could manage. "We got incoming," he said. His leg was killing him.

"I see that," Steve answered, and Clint glanced down to the ground to see the super soldier behind a tree, holding the AK-47 parallel to his chest as he waited for the soldiers before him to stop firing. When they did, Steve charged, the AK-47 spitting bullets at the men who'd unwisely ceased their attack. Two fell, and Steve was behind another tree before the others could retaliate. Bark and wood flew from the trunk as gunfire rained down upon him. One of the soldiers went down, a brown arrow embedded in his neck, and Clint saw some of the villagers standing behind the fray, bows raised. Unfortunately their attack was answered with a spray of automatic gunfire. Clint gritted his teeth helplessly as some of them were struck. Their lifeless bodies fell and rolled down the embankment toward the river. The others fled. He couldn't help but be a little relieved. There was enough blood on his hands.

But there was no time to think about it. Clint turned again, raising his torso and loosing another arrow. The projectile flew fast and true and hit his mark. It exploded, killing the man he'd targeted and the three others unlucky enough to be around him. The men who'd taken cover up the hill among the trees returned fire, and Clint gasped as he barely got his head down in time. He heard the distinctive _blam blam_ of a shotgun and saw a blur of blue as Steve launched himself into the fray, unloading two shots rapidly before grabbing the vest of the soldier closest to him. He moved so fast, too fast for the others to stop him, as he broke the man's neck and flung him into his friends. They went down in a tangle of limbs and guns. Clint tossed down another grenade as soon as Steve was clear.

By now the soldiers realized what they were up against. Clint killed another approaching man, turning wild eyes to his next target. Everything was starting to blur, the fire of adrenaline losing its potency in the face of fever and pain. He was having a harder and harder time concentrating, aiming, thinking. But he still saw a familiar glint among the leaves. A long silver shaft gleamed in the sunlight as it was stuffed into a launcher. "Shit," he whispered. _"RPG!"_

He saw the poof of smoke and heard the distinct sound of the launch, and then he ducked and stopped thinking and feeling and breathing. The missile struck somewhere to his right, taking out a collection of houses in a fire ball that scorched the very ground. Anybody who was inside was incinerated. The explosion battered him, and for a moment all he could hear was a horrific and shrill ringing in his ears. He chanced lifting his head, desperate to catch sight of Steve amidst the flames and smoke, and thankfully found him flattened to the ground underneath a sod wall of another hut that had collapsed on top of him. He shrugged free from the wreckage, bleeding from his lip and temple, skittering away and grabbing a fallen rifle as he did. He whirled, firing into the soldiers that had taken the explosion as a chance to regroup. Then he ran into the trees. "Alright?" came his gasping question.

"Yeah," Clint answered, even though he wasn't. He was fighting the press of unconsciousness, and his leg was throbbing and hurting and burning and _God, somebody cut it off –_

"Another!" He opened his eyes just in time to see the trees behind him explode, where Steve had been. Heat washed over him, nearly knocking him out, and a plume of heavy gray smoke followed. He gagged, struggling to open his eyes. He saw a soldier right below him and barely drew his handgun in time, plugging the bastard in the head hopefully before he was spotted. He turned onto his belly again, or at least onto his side, craning his neck to see through the smoke and fire. He barely took the time to aim, fairly certain with his blurred vision and trembling hand that it didn't matter. He emptied the clip of the gun, ejected the empty cartridge, and slammed in a new one. His fingers were covered in blood. He wasn't sure from where.

He saw Steve again, and with a mighty swing Rogers flung a live grenade up the hill and into the trees. The resounding explosion left Clint even more winded, but he still gasped, "Here!" and tossed the last grenade down to Steve. The soldier pulled the pin and sent it flying. There were screams. But there were more men, too. More and more. This was hopeless, and that was the last of their ability to strike major damage. But still Clint fired. He was too weary and beaten to see if he hit anything.

The soldiers swarmed Steve, shooting haphazardly, their faces sooty and sweaty and uncertain of how to contend with a super soldier. Steve used their hesitation against them, striking mightily. One punch sent a man flying a good ten feet and colliding with a tree trunk with a sickening crunch. The others backed away, guns blazing, but they weren't fast enough. Steve charged one, landing a heavy kick in the man's chest that probably crushed his ribs. He went at another, fists flying, stepping lightly and gracefully. Steve was highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat. These men were no match for him, and in a flash they were all down.

But the two Avengers were massively outnumbered. A stray bullet finally met its mark, and Steve yelped and staggered, shot through the left bicep. He skidded in the bloody mud and scooped up another fallen gun, taking cover behind one of the remaining huts as a rain of bullets descended. Then he returned fire, but it was becoming impossible to see through the chaos and smoke. Clint grimaced, reaching for his shotgun. He had a single arrow left and irrationally didn't want to part with it. The gun was slick in his hands. He took aim at the bastards who had Steve pinned behind the hut and fired. The rebound of the gun rammed the butt into his already fiery shoulder, and he couldn't stand to shoot it again.

The men turned in his direction.

"No!" Steve screamed. "Watch out! _Get down!_"

Everything seemed to happen so slowly. The bullets leaving the gun barrels. Striking the hut. Tearing away the thatched sod and leaves and wood like it was paper. Ricocheting off the metal plates. Clint gasped, dropping the shotgun and it slid down the roof and fell from the side. He wavered, knowing that he was in serious danger, but the pain and fever were winning the war on consciousness. Numbly he reached for his last arrow, but his fingers never got there.

There was a horrific flash and the hut disappeared from beneath him. He went down and down, falling seemingly forever as the world blurred and blackened and his ears rang with a thunderous detonation. Then he hit the ground hard, his leg crushed beneath his twisting body, and he shrieked with all the breath he had left in his lungs.

He was lost for a moment. Vaguely he heard shouts and scuffling and the pops of gunfire. Vaguely he smelled smoke and tasted blood. He saw a blur of gray and blue and green overhead. He blinked and blinked and blinked, and then his lungs heaved painfully and he sucked in a huge breath. His broken body protested, and he whimpered weakly. He tried to roll over and scramble away, but his limbs wouldn't respond to his command. Something long and thin and black mixed in with the smoldering sod around him. The last of his arrows, broken, but he reached for it anyway because it was all he had left.

Somebody grabbed his arm and held him up and he never had the chance to fight, even if he'd been able to. The handgun was yanked from his holster. He could barely see for the dirt and smoke and tears in his eyes, but the dark shadow looming over him was unmistakably human. And furious. "Welcome to hell, _amigo_," snarled an accented voice. Then something hard rammed into his face, and he surrendered.

* * *

_¿__Necesitas algo? – _Do you need something?

_No. Grac__í__as._ _ – _No. Thank you.

_Tu amigo es muy fuerte. – _Your friend is very strong.

_S__í__. Es soldado._ – Yes. He's a soldier.

_Lo s__é. _– I know.

_Se preocupa por ti. _– He cares about you.

_Amigo _– Friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for the help with the Spanish! Please read and enjoy!

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**8**

Steve had been in some tough situations before, where panic and chaos trumped any sort of control. Where innocents died and the plan went to hell and it was all he could do to try and keep himself and his men alive. Where fires blazed and smoke blinded and bullets rained and the world dissolved around him.

This was among the worst.

He was trying desperately to get to Clint. He couldn't quite see him; the men had surrounded the injured archer the minute he'd hit the ground, the hut blown out from beneath him by a grenade. Steve felt terror coil tightly in his belly as he scrambled away from another grenade, jumping to the side and rolling as the ground where he had been erupted in a fireball and a spray of leaves and mud. He twisted as he landed and pulled the trigger on his shotgun immediately, killing the man who'd thrown it. Then he took cover behind a thick tree, wincing as bullets peppered the other side. He threw down the empty shotgun and pulled his handgun from his hip holster. The second the gunfire ceased, he sprung from cover and quickly squeezed off two shots. One missed, striking the ground, but the other killed one of the men shooting at him. He desperately tried to peer through the crowd of men and smoke to catch a glimpse of Clint, but he couldn't. He barely dodged another spray of bullets and returned fire until the cartridge was empty, but this was hopeless and he knew it. There were nearly twenty men in what remained of the village. He only had a clip left for the gun, and he was really starting to tire. His arm was bleeding pretty badly. He couldn't fight so many. And Clint needed him. _Clint needed him_.

With a burst of energy fueled by terror and worry, Steve charged at the mercenaries closest to him. He barreled into one, the man shrieking as he went down under the soldier's considerable size. His gun flew from his hand as he slammed into the ground, his head snapping back and rendering him unconscious. Steve snatched the knife from the man's belt and flung it at his companion. The blade sunk in deep and the lifeless body collapsed. Steve pivoted, bringing up his gun and clasping it with both hands as he pointed it at the remainder of Vargas' soldiers.

"Drop it, boy," ordered one, an older bald man with fierce eyes and an ugly face.

Steve stilled, glaring hatefully, but he didn't lower his weapon. Then there was a garbled groan and Clint was hauled forward. Two of the men flanked him, their rifles pointed dangerously at Clint's shaking form, and a third yanked him by his hair. Barton struggled weakly, blood covering his face from a cut on his right brow. He looked barely conscious. Steve breathed raggedly, trying to calm the racing of his heart and _think_. He felt movement behind him and knew he was being surrounded.

It was over.

They'd lost.

But he didn't put down his gun. He didn't want to let go of their last defense. Their last hope.

The men holding Clint dropped him to his knees and he would have pitched forward if not for the hand tightly balled in his hair. He moaned, his right eye nearly swollen shut and coated in thick blood, his left open to a watery slit. He caught Steve's gaze. All Steve saw was fever and pain and fear.

A gun was pressed to Clint's temple.

"I said drop it!"

There was no choice. Steve barely contained his rage and frustration, brought to the brink by this horrific situation. With great effort he lowered his stiff arms and bent, setting the gun to the ground.

The soldiers instantly swarmed him. A dozen guns were on him, held ready to fire at the slightest sign of his resistance. "On your knees!" Steve grunted as his legs were kicked out from under him. Without warning, the soldiers roughly and patted him down, searching for other weapons. "Hands on your head! Now!" He had no choice but to obey. He watched furiously as Clint was dragged forward. The archer made no effort to fight or even support his weight. It took all of Steve's will to remain still, darting his eyes about to the guns pointed at them, as the men shoved Clint down in front of him.

"You too, _amigo_," said the man holding Clint's hair. He released him and Barton almost fell flat to his face, barely catching himself in time. "Get your hands where we can see them."

Clint was shaking badly, and he barely had the strength to put his hands behind his head. The two Avengers knelt, wounded and defeated, surrounded by their enemies. Clint was hunched, panting weakly and quite obviously fighting to stay awake. There was fresh wetness on his right pant leg, though whether it was from the thigh wound or something else Steve couldn't say. Worry sped his heart faster and faster. He had to do something to get them out of this. He had to.

But he didn't have a moment to think about what or how. The ugly bald brute stomped over to him and backhanded him roughly. Steve gasped, pain exploding along his cheek. He had no time to recover before the next strike clipped him across the mouth. His teeth gnashed his lips and cheek and the warm bitterness of blood covered his tongue. He couldn't help himself when the soldier's fist rushed toward him again. He grabbed it in a flash and twisted, hearing the satisfying sound of bones snapping. The man howled and fell and Steve made for his gun.

Not his wisest move. They were on him in an instant, hands grabbing for his struggling form. He fought wildly, but it was no use. "I'll put a bullet in his brain!" snarled a gruff voice. Steve stopped, catching a frantic glimpse of Clint with a gun jammed into his temple again. They hauled Steve back from the gasping bald man (probably their commanding officer), who was cradling his shattered hand to his chest. He flashed violent, furious eyes to Steve and stalked closer and made absolutely no pretense about kicking his prisoner violently in the chest. The boot rammed into his still healing wound, and Steve couldn't restrain the ragged cry that tore from his lips. The world shifted to black for a moment, agony blasting over him and stealing his breath. Then the bastard kicked him again, and Steve wailed.

Thankfully, that seemed to slack his thirst for revenge. He backed away from his gasping captive, and the rest of the men hauled Steve back to his knees and jabbed their guns in his face. "Try anything again," the man warned, "and I'll kill him. _Estúpido!_"

It took Steve a seemingly long moment to regain his composure, the fiery hurt slow to fade and release his senses. He trembled in a mixture of pain and rage and glared menacingly at their captors. "We know who you are, _Capit__á__n_," the bald man declared. He held a gun in his other hand, and he leveled it at Steve. Steve gritted his teeth. "Señor Vargas wants you alive. But he didn't say anything about unharmed. So don't tempt us, eh? You killed a lot of my men."

Steve spat a mouthful of blood to the ground. "Not enough," he retorted.

The bald man's eyes flashed in rage again. It likely wasn't wise to taunt him, not with Clint so badly hurt and the both of them haplessly at the whims of their captors. However, Steve was having a hard time controlling his temper. These bastards had done a significant amount of damage to the two of them, not to mention killing countless innocents and nearly destroying this village. "I should make you watch me cut him to pieces," he sneered, and Steve darted his eyes to Clint and tried not to show his fright. "Lucky for you, Vargas wants you both."

Radios crackled with voices. There was a rapid exchange in Spanish. Steve didn't know what they were saying, glancing again at Clint for some sign of what was happening, but the archer only trembled and shook his head. The movement was small and barely perceptible and Steve didn't know what the hell to do.

"Get them up," the bald man snapped to the others, and Steve steeled his face as he was lifted to his feet. "He's waiting, so we'll go on a little hike, huh? Then you can answer to the big man for what you've done."

The blood drained from Steve's face and his heart pounded even harder as cold fear washed over him. He saw the men trying to lift Clint, saw the agony splayed across the archer's filthy face, saw his right leg crumpling as his weight was placed on it. "He can't walk," he said quickly, not wanting to reveal anything that could be used against them but also knowing he couldn't let these men force Clint to march on a gangrenous leg. It would be his death. Steve was miserably sure of it.

The bald man turned back. "Well, then, maybe he won't be joining us after all."

"I'll carry him," Steve swore. "Let me carry him."

"Don't think so, _Capitán_."

"If you don't let me help him, you'll never take me alive, understand?" Steve said. "And I'll kill as many of you as I can before you take me down."

The bald man stared at him with cold eyes, gauging him for the truth behind his threat. For his own part, Steve kept his face hard and emotionless, betraying nothing of his doubt and fear. If they were going to use Clint against him to keep him submissive, fine. He would set the terms. A silent war of wills raged between them. Steve didn't look away, tensing his jaw and hoping he appeared far more powerful and formidable than he felt.

He must have. The bald man released a short, dissatisfied breath. "As you wish. If you so much as take a step out of line, I _will_ shoot him." Steve wondered which of them was playing the bigger bluff. Killing Clint gained them nothing; they'd lose the only leverage they had to force Captain America to cooperate. After witnessing the carnage Steve had caused, they probably feared they couldn't him control on their own.

Still, Steve didn't care overly much why they were letting him help Clint so long as they did. The men restraining his arms let him go and he wasted not a second, covering the short distance between him and Barton in a quick crawl. He knelt at Clint's side, shooting a vicious glower at the men still holding the fallen archer, and they backed away. More than a dozen guns were on them, so there was no chance of escape or mounting any sort of an offense. But at least they were together.

"Hey," Steve said quietly. He pulled Clint, who was still on his knees and slumped, into his arms. He held him tight, fear leaving him weak and shaky for a moment and craving comfort, even the little bit that the momentary embrace provided. "Hey. Can you hear me? I got you."

Clint only groaned for a second, the sound muffled against Steve's shoulder. Steve pulled him back and gently grabbed his face between his hands. Clint wasn't really focusing, his eyes glazed with pain and illness and possibly a concussion. Steve held his gaze, hoping to ground him a little. He would have used his name, but he wasn't certain Vargas knew Clint's identity. His own might have been compromised, but as long as Vargas wasn't aware of how high in SHIELD's chain of command Clint was, he was probably safer. It seemed to work. "Yeah," Clint murmured.

"I'm not going to let them hurt you, okay?"

The corner of Clint's bloody lips turned up into a small, grotesque grin. "Little… little late for that."

"Up!" hollered one of the men, and Steve didn't dare cross them for fear they'd change their minds about their arrangement.

"I got you. I promise," Steve hurriedly whispered, and then he pulled Clint close again and slipped his arm under the other man's knees. He lifted him, ignoring the pain in his chest and arm, positioning him in such a way as to press his wounded thigh to his chest for better protection. He could feel the sickening heat radiating from Clint's skin. This was very bad.

He lost himself in worry for a moment too long. A gun jabbed into the small of his back, prodding him forward. "_Vámanos_."

They left the remains of the village, most of the huts engulfed in flames or collapsed into lifeless, sad piles of wood and leaves on the forest floor. Steve felt horrible for the destruction. The small, serene place, the homes of innocent people who'd done nothing but help them, would be reduced to ash in a matter of minutes. The dead lay everywhere, mercenaries and villagers alike, and as they marched past, Steve averted his eyes in shame and guilt. These monsters were heartless. Soulless. He'd seen horrors in the war. Somehow he'd hoped that men had evolved beyond butchery and barbarism. But he had been wrong about this new world and these new times, yet again.

Clint slipped into unconsciousness, putting forth no effort to hold onto Steve. That was troublesome because it made carrying him more of a burden, but Steve was more concerned about how utterly lifeless Barton was in his arms. He knew he was to blame for this. Maybe it hadn't been his bad decision that had landed them in this hell in the first place, but it had been his responsibility to keep Clint safe during the skirmish. The logical part of his mind decried his guilt; there was nothing he could have done. The wound on his thigh would either take his leg or his life. Sadly, it looked as though it would be the latter. Even if the end was inevitable, Steve should never have allowed him to fight. He should've sent him with the villagers, maybe never even orchestrated this ill-fated last stand… Clint was dying in his arms, and he couldn't stop it. He'd lost the ability to even try.

Then it occurred to him that was possibly not the case. But he didn't want to get ahead of himself. Instead, he concentrated on every step, knowing the soldiers around him would strike them both down if he faltered. He concentrated on Clint's weak breath against his arm where his head had limply rolled, on the warm blood dripping down his skin from the weeping wound on Clint's brow. He concentrated on Clint's shallow pulse as he could feel its weak, frantic pace where his arm pressed against the archer's neck. He concentrated on counting heart beats and breaths and taking steady steps and praying. Even though he'd been born Catholic and raised by Irish Catholic parents and then in a Catholic orphanage, he hadn't prayed, _really_ prayed, since waking up in this century from his coma. He'd lost his faith, to be truthful, when he'd discovered that everything and everyone he'd ever loved had been taken from him. He'd sacrificed himself for his country, for the world, and had been punished acutely for it. He tried not to think such things, but he did, because he was so completely lost and alone in this time period and that hurt. It was a wound in his soul that would never completely heal. So he'd stopped believing, because God couldn't be so cruel.

But he was praying now. Silently. Deeply and desperately.

Thankfully this trek was a short one, and not fifteen minutes later they reached a wide, flat grassy area beside the river. The trees here were less sparse. Littered among the reeds were bodies. Two. Five. Eleven. Some of the villagers who hadn't escaped fast enough. Rage built in Steve's gut, hard and violent and unyielding. Never the riverbank, two helicopters rested idly. Heat turned the air above their engines wavy and distorted, so they were recently used. More mercenaries surrounded the area, clad in black ops gear and sporting fancy guns. At their group's approach, a man dressed in a black satin shirt and expensive chinos hopped down from the fuselage of one of the choppers. A fine straw hat with a black band covered his head. He was clean-shaven, his skin brown and his eyes seemingly innocuous. A glittering silver watch flashed on one wrist as he slipped his hands into his pants pocket. He was flanked by his men. It could only be Vargas.

The men shoved Steve forward less than gently. The two groups came face to face. The bald man nodded to Vargas and turned hawkish eyes to Steve. "Drop him." Steve was reluctant but there was no sense in fighting. Carefully he set Clint's limp body down into the grass. The archer coughed and then groaned, his eyelids fluttering, as the mercenaries gathered around him. Steve wasn't sure how aware he was. He was certainly incapable of defending himself. "Now on your knees and hands up again." Steve did as he was told, and numerous soldiers stood behind him, guns hovering at the back of his head where his fingers were interlocked. He watched silently, furiously, as they pulled the semi-conscious Clint upright beside him. Barton was barely able to lift his head, shuddering and seemingly unaware of the weapons so dangerously close.

It was quiet for a moment. Vargas stood before his catch. The drug lord smiled, apparently pleased. He seemed friendly enough, but in Steve's experience, it was usually the charming, amiable, easy-going sort of villain that could manage the worst evil. That sort had smarts and charisma and lofty ambitions and, worst of all, patience. "Captain America. It's nice to finally meet you. Sadly our little cat and mouse game has reached its climax." His voice was heavily accented, oily, and soaked in fake gentility.

Steve didn't beat around the bush. "I know you want me. I'll do whatever you want. I won't fight so long as my teammate receives medical attention immediately."

Vargas grinned wider. "My, my. I know you Americans can be rather presumptuous. I suppose it should make sense that you would be such a stunning symbol of your country's arrogance."

"You can't force me to cooperate, and you damn well know it."

"Can't I?" Vargas said, cocking an eyebrow. Steve felt cold chills itch at the base of his back, but he refused to succumb. A little breeze brushed by, rustling the grasses, but he never faltered and never looked away from the man who'd caused them such pain and misery. "You are hardly in a position to be negotiating with me."

"He gets medical treatment, and you get me."

"Brave of you, Captain, considering you don't know _why_ I want you." Steve said nothing, trying his damnedest to appear resolute. "You cost me a fair bit of money when you destroyed my alien weapons, not to mention the power I would have gained in my profession by selling them. I think it's only fair that you repay me." Steve didn't understand, but dread twisted his stomach. "How much do you think the secrets behind the world's first and only super soldier are worth?"

That dread got stronger, more painful, like a heavy anchor pulling him down. "It can't be done. People have tried." At least, he'd been told that. And no one had ever succeeded in reproducing the serum that had transformed him from a skinny, sick, weakling into Captain America. In fact, the few attempts of which he was aware had ended disastrously.

"People haven't had _you_. Maybe they need a living sample."

Fear overcame the dread, icy and powerful, and he couldn't think for a long moment. He heard himself speaking, his mouth moving of its own accord because nothing else seemed possible of coherency. "Fine."

Vargas seemed a little surprised but mostly amused. "You would really do that for this man? Sell yourself in return for his life? Who is he? Someone of value, perhaps? Someone you wish to protect?" He flitted dark brown eyes to Clint's wavering form. The archer was slumped, his hands in his lap, his legs folded beneath him. There was not a muscle in his body that was prepared to attack or escape or even fight. It looked like the warm, gentle breeze that was tickling the grass might blow him over. He was helpless.

"No one," Steve immediately announced, hoping he didn't sound too eager to answer. He didn't want to betray his own lies, and underneath all the swagger, he'd wager that Vargas was a hungry, sadistic bastard. "I destroyed your base. He was just supposed to cover my back, but he got tangled up in this. He didn't even know about the weapons. He doesn't know anything." He stopped his babbling words, afraid he would give something away that could be used against him in his efforts to protect Clint. Thankfully Clint was so out of it that he didn't argue, didn't deny.

"Then why sacrifice yourself for him?" Vargas asked.

"Why do you care? You'll get what you want. Give him medical care, and I'll willingly be your prisoner."

"I'm a business man, Captain. I wouldn't be as rich and successful as I am if I didn't examine every possible advantage in the situation before me. Lucrative opportunities are missed that way."

Steve was losing his patience and his nerve. "Then let me put it to you in simple terms. If you don't treat him and let him go, I'll kill every last one of your men and then turn a gun on myself. You'll be out of an army and out of your prize."

Vargas eyed him analytically, probably trying to gauge the likelihood of him following through with his threat. Much like before, Steve steeled his face and kept his gaze firm and commanding. Every line of his body was taut, and he refused to falter. He didn't know how far he could take this. It had gotten him to this point. He was potentially pressing his luck, but he couldn't back down. If this was what he needed to do to protect Clint, he would do it. He was Captain America. Maybe he couldn't fight _all_ of these men, but he knew he could take out more than a few before he'd have to make good on his promise.

Vargas grunted and the perpetual smile slid from his face slightly. "You would do that?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Try me."

A silent eternity crept past. Vargas never looked away from Steve, and Steve never eased his baleful glare. Then the man grinned again. "Alright, Captain. If he's so important to you, I will accept your terms. You submit without a struggle, and your friend will live."

This was it. Steve knew he was signing his own death sentence. He didn't hesitate. "Agreed."

"Good. Let's be on our way then. I have to market my product, spread the word that Captain America is ready to go to the highest bidder!" With that, he turned, quietly spoke in Spanish to his men, and headed back to the helicopter.

"Up, _Capitán_." The bald men gestured to his soldiers with his crushed hand, and they quickly yanked Steve to his feet by his arms. He could have easily broken free, but he didn't. He could have escaped, even, but he didn't. Every fiber of his being _demanded he run_, but he didn't. He couldn't. He was pushed toward his captors.

Suddenly something yanked on his left leg. He felt a painful prick in his thigh and then a sharp pinch. He gasped and turned and saw Clint clinging to him. The archer had balled his left hand in the fabric of Steve's pants. The other he used to rip a broken arrow out of his leg, the broken arrow Barton himself had stabbed him with. The snapped shaft was clenched tightly in Clint's fist. Steve felt warm blood coat his thigh where his skin had been punctured. He didn't understand. Clint's eyes were open, bright and frantic, and the most cognizant they'd been since the skirmish. There was pain and delirium threatening, but for this one moment, Steve saw _him_ in the hazy brown orbs.

The soldier made a show of stumbling and falling, and Clint yanked him close for a moment. "They'll find you," he whispered, and then his bloody hands shook with a spasm and he let go of Steve's clothes.

"Get off!" snarled one of men, and he yanked Clint away before striking him roughly across the face. Clint fell in the grass, choking on blood and weakly turning to his side, and Steve couldn't see anymore as the soldiers separated them.

"No! No! Don't hurt him!" Steve demanded. He pushed away one of the men trying to restrain him, and then watched in horror as the mercenaries yanked Clint upright by his hair again. A wicked knife, the blade glinting maniacally in the sunlight, rested at Barton's heaving throat. _"No!"_

"_Basta._" Vargas' cool command stilled the men. He turned his gaze to Steve, and then stepped aside slightly, gesturing to the waiting helicopters. A few more men were coming. One carried thick handcuffs. Another carried chains. "I keep my word. You do the same."

Steve's mouth went dry and he could barely breathe. He stood still, glancing between Clint's unprotected body and the men coming. They were going to use Barton against him until the end. Steve wondered how much he'd just foolishly elongated that. The thought was sickening. He couldn't do anything, not willing to chance them killing Clint, as someone grabbed his arms and wrenched them behind his back. He felt the metal cuffs being slipped around his wrists and locked into place. "There's no sense in trying to break these, Captain. At least the time I spent pursuing you afforded me a chance to prepare." Steve wasn't really listening, his mind overthrown in panic. All he could see was Clint and that knife at his throat, prepared to cut his airway. They bound his ankles as well, the length of chain between the cuffs long enough so that he could shuffle but not run, and then looped chains around his biceps that were pulled painfully tight. His shot arm flared in pain. There was rattling as the men secured him. Trussed as he was, his chances of escape had dwindled to nearly nothing. Lastly they ripped his ear communicator away and tossed it into the grass.

Vargas looked pleased. "_Vámanos, muchachos_."

The rotors on the helicopters whirled to life, beating the air faster and faster as they spun. They shoved Steve toward them. Steve dug his heels into the ground, craning his neck around to see Clint. The knife left the archer's throat, which he mistakenly took for a good thing until he realized that meant they weren't using Clint as leverage against him anymore which meant that they'd gotten what they wanted and didn't need him. _Didn't need him_. "No!" Steve shouted, twisting his body only to see the soldiers shove Clint's body into the grass. They walked away, laughing. "No! You son of a bitch!" He tried to fight, tried to yank his hands apart, but whatever metal with which they'd bound him was too strong. He lunged toward Vargas as he was pushed past, but he could do more than spit and snarl. "You goddamn son of bitch! We had a deal!"

"My dear Captain, one does not rise to power such as mine without altering a few deals along the way," Vargas said, smiling again. "Still, your attempts to protect him were valiant, if not foolish. I admire your nobility."

Steve could hardly hear the taunts over the roaring in his ears. A boot rammed into his back and he went down, gasping. A hand wove through his hair, others latching onto him wherever they could, yanking and pulling and dragging. He fought as hard as he could, but he'd already damned himself. He'd damned them both.

"Clint! _Clint! No!_" He looked back toward where the archer had been dumped, but Barton wasn't moving. He was lying lifelessly in the grass. Dead already, maybe. If not, then he would be soon. Furious tears blurred his vision, and rage twisted his innards, and he wanted to crush them all. "You bastard! I'll kill you!"

"Oh, I highly doubt that. No more talking, please."

The soldiers surrounded him, and two men held his head steady while a third one gagged him. A fleeting thought crossed his panicked mind that maybe he could have come clean, told them who Clint was, that this man was Hawkeye, a powerful spy in SHIELD and an Avenger. That Clint had been the one to destroy their base and their weapons. Maybe then they would have thought him valuable enough to take prisoner rather than leave behind. But it was too late for that. The last of Steve's control fled him. He used the men holding his arms behind him as leverage and kicked up powerfully, catching the one who'd stuffed the cloth in his mouth. The soldier fell back with a yelp, and the momentum of the attack sent the group of them down into the grass. Steve writhed and twisted and did _everything_ he could to fight. It was useless. Boots and fists rained down upon him, and then the men carried his subdued form into the helicopter. He yelled furiously, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now.

They shoved him to the floor, two of the soldiers planting their feet on his chest to keep him down while more held his arms and legs tightly while even more kept their guns pointed at him. He heard the doors of the helicopter slam shut and then the rotors spin faster and faster. The bald man loomed over him and shook his head in disgust. "_Muchacho estúpido_," he said. His eyes hungered for vengeance, his lip curled back in a hideous sneer. His boot slammed downward.

Helpless and hating himself, Captain America screamed.

* * *

_amigo _– friend

_Estúpido! _– Stupid!

_Capitán_ – Captain

_Vámanos_. – Let's go.

_Basta. – _Stop.

_Vámanos, muchachos_. – Let's go, boys.

_Muchacho estúpido_. – Stupid boy.


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**9**

In the back of his mind, Clint knew he'd been left behind. He'd been left to die. He was drifting in and out of consciousness and had been for quite some time. Every time he came around, things were different. It was like he was watching some grotesque movie with scenes cut out of it so the story was impossible to follow. He remembered the gunfight. He remembered falling. Then pain and Steve and loud, angry voices. Rough hands and angry eyes. Steve carrying him. Steve trying to save him. Steve _sacrificing_ himself for him. Choppers. Grass. Pain, pain, _pain…_

He groaned and tried to roll over, tried to move, but his body was a dead, limp weight. He blinked but his vision wouldn't clear. There was cerulean sky overhead and clouds heavy with rain. Distant rumbling. Thunder? He didn't know. He thought he heard water, but he couldn't remember why that would be or from where it was coming. Everything was a jumbled mess in his head. Things that had seemed so clear, so imperative – fight, protect them, avenge them, _live_ – were tangled and tortured and twisted to the point where nothing made sense. He only knew pain and fire.

Time lost meaning. There was a hot wind sometimes that brushed across his skin. It was hot and he was hot but for some reason he couldn't stop shivering. He was so thirsty, his lips cracked and his throat aching and his mouth drier than a desert, but he couldn't summon the energy to get up. Vaguely he thought he recalled something about his leg, but it was all detached from him. Too far to reach, much like the water. He was pretty sure he was going to die. He couldn't quite reason why – something about fever and gangrene and _God, please, cut off my leg _– and he was alone. He was going to die and he was alone.

He was afraid.

He drifted away again, spinning on the whims of delirium. Nothing worked smoothly anymore. He couldn't seem to keep his breathing steady. Sometimes he could only choke and gasp, desperate for oxygen, and sometimes it was easier and there was all the sweet air in the world. He couldn't seem to keep his mind clear. Random thoughts and random feelings and random wisps of random memories all mixed together to form something that wasn't quite right yet not entirely wrong. He couldn't move, though nothing was binding him and no one was holding him, and he couldn't make himself care. He should care. No one was going to save him, which meant he needed to save himself. He laughed at that. Actually giggled, because it was pretty damn funny.

There was a blissfully, blessedly short period where it wasn't funny. Where he had some semblance of sanity and control to try and escape his death. With no small amount of agony and energy, he'd rolled over from his back to the belly. The long grasses tickled his cheek and nose as he lay gasping in the soft soil, the pungent smells of earth invading him with every shaking, sobbing breath. It had taken more pain and suffering, his shoulder absolutely burning, to prop his leaden torso enough to get his arms beneath him. He shook violently, struggling, fighting to push himself upward, the world falling away and everything reduced to a single desperate wish to _stand_. _Come on, Barton. Get up. Get up! Get up get up get up… _He did. Sweat and tears dripped from his nose and chin, but he was _on his feet_. Clint smiled and laughed. Suddenly the world was conquerable. He could get away, escape his prison, this field of the dead, and get to the river and find some help. He would save Steve.

But one step and his right leg wailed in sheer agony, and he was down in the grass again. He barely managed to turn onto his back again to get the pressure off his leg. Unconsciousness swooped in, punishing him for such stupidity, and he was too damn weak to fight.

When he awoke, he wasn't alone. "Hey, kid. Long time, no see, huh?"

Clint had to lick his lips over and over again to wet them enough to speak. "Go 'way, Barney. You got yourself in with the wrong crowd. I can't help you."

"They'll kill me, Clint. You don't know this guy. I need your help. I need SHIELD."

Clint grunted. "I'm not the one who keeps making mistakes."

"You always make mistakes. You've lived a life of them. Don't make another. I'm a good guy, Clint. You know me. This Egghead is as bad as they come. We have to stop him."

There was gunfire then. A dirty street in Mumbai, crowded with civilians. A poor place to conduct a war. Some mad scientist was trying to arm the worlds' enemies with weapons that could destroy the earth. And Barney was caught in the middle of it all. Barney always thought he was right, _always_ knew the best choice, the right call. Not this time. Not this time. There were too many and they were too heavily armed. Fortified in old, dilapidated buildings and leveraging the innocents caught in the crossfire against them. It was another battle they couldn't win. Hadn't won. Clint wasn't sure.

He saw a flash of long red hair, as ruddy as blood. Guns cracking and spitting bullets. She was surrounded. He'd been distracted by another squad of enemies and now she was trapped. He was out of arrows and too damn far away. "Nat! No!" The snapping of automatic weapons as the hunters took down their prey. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't save her. _"No!"_

Barney flung himself in front of Romanoff and went down like a rag doll, arms and legs splayed limply as he struck the road hard and skidded into Romanoff's feet. Thankfully their air support blew the responsible assailants to hell, but it was too late. It was always too late.

Clint scrambled over. The air smelled too wet and earthy for the dust in his eyes and clinging to his face. He thought Barney was dead, but he wasn't. Not yet. Blood welled up from a dozen bullet wounds all over his body. Uselessly he pressed his hands over the worst one in his chest near his heart. Barney choked. "Should've… should've covered… back…"

He didn't say who, but Clint knew anyway.

His hands were warm and sticky. He squeezed them, his fingers caked together so tightly that he could barely move them. That breeze again. He shivered, very much alone, and the cerulean above was bright orange now. The clouds were gone. The sky was burning. "It's never good enough, is it?" he asked. His voice didn't sound like what he remembered. It was so hoarse and weak and distant that he wondered if he had spoken at all. "Never good enough. But you screwed up worse than I ever did. You made a mess of it all."

"At least I tried. When the hell have you ever tried to be a hero?"

"Once." It had felt so wickedly good to torch the bastards in the base, to witness their shock and fear and panic once they realized that they were going to die, that they would pay for testing those weapons on innocents, on _children_, that there was nothing they could do to avoid punishment. He'd felt so warm, so true, so right, watching them bleed and burn and that meant it was more vengeance than heroism. He'd felt vindicated. Hadn't he? He couldn't remember that, either. But he must have. That was why fate had punished him in turn.

That gun, sleek and powerful in his hand. Pull the trigger, and the monster would know pain.

Clint laughed. "Couldn't even do it right. I'm not a hero. Heroes don't die alone, do they?"

"He did." He blinked and saw Coulson and remembered standing outside the infirmary at SHIELD headquarters in Manhattan. The two of them watched through the observation windows as the doctors and nurses worked on reviving the newly discovered Captain America. "He died alone. Sacrificed himself for his country. For the whole world." _For me_. Coulson sighed. "Sometimes bad things happen to good people."

"Get real, Coulson. Nobody can be as _good_ as you're making him out to be. Nobody's perfect," Clint insisted, shaking his head.

Coulson's eyes never left Captain America's unmoving body. They were full of something calm, something reverent. Something Clint wouldn't understand until later. "He's as close as it gets."

Ice dripping. From the table to the floor. God, he wanted water. Everything hurt. Throbbed. Wracked with agony. Dying flesh. Aching lungs. Clint moaned, digging his hands into the muddy earth, twisting the grass in his fists as he tried to pull himself forward. The river was ahead. The river. Water.

He strained, dragging his dead leg, his dead weight, his dead body. Desperation bled into his thoughts, piercing waking nightmare, and panic turned his empty, roiling belly into a suffering, hollow pit that yearned for anything to fill it. His soul wasn't much better. Frantic for freedom, frantic for absolution. Frantic for this hell to end. He dug his fingers deeper and deeper into the earth, but the soil just squeezed through them. There was nothing to grab, no way to push himself, no purchase. There was no hope. It was too far. So far. He knew it and for the first time he cried.

He couldn't hold onto his thoughts. The pain came again, persistent and terrifying, and he had nothing left to defend himself against it. He thought he heard screams. The villagers that had been slaughtered. Looming shadows, rising from the grass where they'd fallen. Blood and scarred faces and haunted eyes. Clint screamed, too.

"I got you. I'm not going to let them hurt you, okay?"

He opened his eyes blearily. Saw dirty blond hair and blue eyes mired in worry. In fear. In concern for someone who was more than just a comrade. "You really want to be my friend, Cap? I'm a sinking ship out here. I'll take you with me."

"You already did."

Fire and nausea and the quinjet spinning and spinning and smashing to the ground. So much blood.

"They'll find you," Clint whispered. "I promise."

Then Steve was gone. Clint turned his head in the grass and saw the dead hauling him away. He was screaming, bound and gagged and trussed like an animal, trying to escape. Trying to fight. But he couldn't because he'd let himself be captured. He'd let himself be taken trying to save something not worth saving. Trying to protect a dead man who deserved punishment for his sins. A hero dying for someone who was anything but.

Clint screamed and cried, because that was all he could do. Steve's eyes were wide with horror, holding his gaze as he was dragged toward the lumbering shadows behind him. The darkness swooped forward and grabbed him and he was gone. Clint shook with sobs. "You failed him," came a calm, threatening voice. He knew that voice. Feared it. Hated it. A blurry apparition slipped from the darkness. It ambled closer and closer, and indistinct lines grew harder, glinting in gold and swathed in green. "You truly are as pathetic as I imagined. You have heart. But it is never strong enough to do true good."

"No."

The man slipped closer and closer until he stood over Clint's useless body. He looked down, his pale, smooth face smiling with the smug satisfaction of being completely and undeniably right. Green eyes glittered, mischievous in some light, but to him they only spoke of cruelty and power. Domination. "Do you know what the truth is, underneath all the fake acceptance and shallow assurances? You are a traitor. If not, how could I have so easily turned you against the world you were meant to protect and the people you claim to love?" He tipped his scepter toward him. Clint struggled mindlessly, tears slipping down his temples to streak through the grime on his face and in his hair. There would be no escape. No cognitive rehabilitation. Not this time. Maybe there never had been. Maybe it had all been a lie, fighting alongside the Avengers, struggling to save New York City, the one time in his life where he had truly been a hero. He wasn't sure anymore. "This is the sad truth of your existence, Clint Barton. You were made to be a murderer, and that sort of evil does not _ever_ change. I know your heart. I know your lies. You were made to be _mine_."

_"Get out of my head!"_

"This is what you deserve, to die here alone, tormented by your failures. The form of your executioner?" The face above him twisted, mutated, transformed into something else entirely. The warden. Dead eyes, now alight in hunger, the same violent, sadistic hunger of which he'd been terrified as a boy, that had plagued his sleep for years. It was worse than he'd ever imagined. "The truth." Something slammed down over his mouth and nose. He couldn't breathe. His heart roared in his ears. He flailed, but he was already so weak. He couldn't fight. "Be a good boy, Clint. Dream nice dreams."

He gasped. His eyes snapped open. Overhead the sky was still burning. Truly. Gray ghosts drifted over him, smoke that smelled of burning wood and burning grass and burning flesh. His eyes watered. Vaguely, in the small part of his mind that was still tethered to reality, he realized the fire from the village was spreading, devouring the rainforest and the riverbank as the wind blew it along. That was really wonderful. Now he could only hope that he died of his wounds or dehydration before he was burned alive.

The waking nightmares faded. Clarity came to him. He laid still, peacefully, quietly, simply too beaten and brutalized to struggle any longer. A pleasant sense of numbness was overcoming him. His leg no longer troubled him. His shoulder no longer burned. The pain that had been his constant companion for so many days was finally gone, distant. A comforting pall of detachment spared him any further torture. He was tired, but not so tired that he wanted to sleep. He wasn't afraid. His emotions had been so raw, so unbridled, but now he couldn't manage to feel anything. There was no point. Acceptance left him untroubled, unworried, the threat of death suddenly much less of a threat and much more of a welcomed change. He'd failed, so there wasn't any point in dragging this out longer. He'd failed those children, orphans just like he'd been, _just like he was,_ for years and years. How many had been abused and murdered because he'd been too afraid to tell the truth? He'd failed Barney. That's what his brother had always told him, that his choices were never right, never good enough, never smart enough. He'd failed Natasha. She didn't need much in this world, didn't depend on anything or anyone, but she needed him. He'd failed Steve. Poor, stupid Steve, who had been dragged into this disaster because of his bad call, who had sacrificed himself for nothing, who would be tortured and sold like a slave _for nothing_.

But most of all, he'd failed himself, because he was going to die having made nothing in his life right.

That didn't bother him much anymore. _Comfortably numb._ He smiled. He'd always liked that song.

It was all fitting in a way, he supposed. He made himself believe that. The alternative, dying angry and full of grief and hate and riddled with unresolved feelings, seemed decidedly horrific. It was pointless to lament sins for which he never could atone. So he let it all go. Tears leaked from his weary eyes unbidden, but he wasn't really crying. The smoke caressed him, embraced him, like the arms of the dead coming to claim one of their own. He wondered what waited for him. He wasn't sure if there was a heaven, and even if there was, he was pretty certain it wasn't for guys like him. He was an assassin, a murderer, a machine wielded by men too rich or too powerful to do their own dirty work. SHIELD had given him direction, deluding him into thinking that maybe he was doing good with his bow rather than evil, but killing was killing. And killers couldn't find peace when they were killed. He knew that.

Maybe it was appropriate that he should be burned to death. Maybe that would be a small taste of what awaited him. Life was never without its ironies.

Clint breathed slowly. Painfully. Coherent thought was slipping away again. Once he might have tried to stop it, tried to reel in his wandering mind, but there wasn't much reason to anymore. He let himself drift, riding waves of sensation, of emotion. Scattered memories. None of it was as sharp or bright as it had been. He could feel his heart straining in his chest. Aching. Broken. But it went on, despite all the damage done to him. One beat at a time. The steady rhythm was some solace, easing him through these final moments like a gentle lullaby. His mother humming. He tried to picture her blonde hair and kind, sad eyes and tender hands. One of the few tender touches he'd ever known. But his dying brain couldn't summon the image. He could not concentrate enough to even mourn that.

The song was slowing.

The steady beat of his heart. Heavy and terminable.

His chest rising and falling. Heavy and terminable.

Life was slowly being reduced to the barest of facts. The barest of truths. The barest of everything. Simple thoughts and simple actions. It was all stripped away, much like the moment he took his mark and pulled hard on his bow and waited. Waited. Endless patience. Boundless time. The world dimmed. The taste of blood and tears was gone. The pain, long faded. His eyes were open, but he wasn't truly seeing anymore. Nor was he truly hearing. At least, it didn't seem true.

"… copy?"

This wasn't real. How could it be? He'd been left behind, left to die, and the damned didn't get second chances. He struggled, anyway, and only on instinct. He climbed through the haze rendering his mind so utterly useless. Something was crackling and hissing. Something loud. Something close.

"… Got something. Closing in."

"What the hell happened here?"

He opened his eyes. The world was gray. Gray and dead. But he didn't want to die. Not anymore.

"I see bodies. Dozens. Are any of them the Cap or Hawkeye?"

"… I hope not." A long pause. "Negative."

"Keep looking."

The crackling faded. He slipped away again, the pull of unconsciousness too strong. Something, the last fire of his spirit, told him to fight. There was nothing left to answer its demands.

"Gonna follow the riverbank."

"Copy, Stark."

He knew that name. He knew those voices. _He knew them. _They were coming from his ear communicator. _SHIELD. The Avengers. _The last vestiges of conscious thought coalesced into a single, logical conclusion: they were looking for him. The plaintive whimper to _fight_ suddenly became a desperate scream, and he focused, snapping open eyes that had once again slipped shut. The pain came back with a vengeance, and he groaned and choked on his breath. Still, he managed a single, whispered plea. "… _help_…"

"Was that Barton?"

"I got him! Closing in."

The smoke suddenly blew away, chasing by the approaching thunder of jets. Through the miasma, a streak of red and gold shot to the ground. It landed with a heavy thud, and the impact vibrated the soil beneath him. The grass trembled around him. Clint couldn't hold on, couldn't stay awake. He was too far gone.

"Barton? Barton! Hawkeye! Can you hear me?"

Somebody was shouting in his face and shaking him roughly. The voice sounded familiar but not quite human. The jostling wakened him, and he saw the face of a machine, eyes glowing pale blue. "Romanoff, he's in really bad shape. Crap. We need the medical team now! Damn it, Barton, what the hell did you do to yourself? Where's the Cap? Clint, where's Rogers? Clint!"

He wanted to answer, but he didn't. He couldn't. He failed yet again. The agony took him to blackness, and that was the end.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This chapter butts up against a higher rating for descriptions of torture and violence, so just be advised if that sort of thing bothers you. Please enjoy!

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**10**

Clint was dead.

And Steve knew it was his fault.

He had tried to save him. Tried to protect him. Tried with all his strength. But everything had fallen apart, slipped through his helpless, guilty fingers. He should have known better than to make a deal with the Devil.

Now they were both lost.

They'd taken him to Vargas' estate, a mansion in the jungle that might have put Tony Stark's numerous homes to shame. Steve didn't know much about the war on drugs, but it seemed to be quite the profitable venture for Vargas. It was fairly revolting that a man who filled the streets of the US with illegal narcotics, preyed upon the weak and helpless, and without reserve waged war upon governments seeking to stop him could be so rich. The estate was far north of the river, sprawling across numerous acres in the Llanos. It was a great, white palace partially embraced by forest and entirely surrounded by a wall more than ten feet high. Steve knew the minute the chopper set down on the helipad to the rear of the estate that security here far outweighed what would be considered normal, even for a wealthy individual. Cameras were everywhere, watching over the mansion and grounds relentlessly. Heavily armed soldiers stood guard inside the compound and patrolled both the perimeters of the estate and the house. There were watchtowers as well, two that he could see inside the walls, and who knew how many more were hidden in the trees beyond. Each housed a couple of soldiers and a sniper. Escape seemed infeasible.

But he had tried anyway. Frankly, now that they'd left Clint to die, they didn't deserve his cooperation. The entirety of the two-hour flight he'd been testing his bonds, slipping his fingers along the manacles around his wrists. With a few inconspicuous pulls that had succeeded in only bloodying and bruising his skin and heightening his frustration, he had determined they were indeed composed of some sort of metal that was too strong to break. The bindings around his arms, however, were a different story. He'd bided his time, waiting until the chopper had touched the ground and the doors had been opened. He'd played limp and defeated as they'd pulled him out into the night air. And then he'd attacked.

He'd head-butted the man in front of him as they'd tried to haul him upright. The surprise assault gained him only a second of advantage, but that was all he needed. The soldiers had been flabbergasted and alarmed as he yanked the short length between his wrists as far as he could manage, and the chains over his chest had snapped like they were nothing. That had permitted him to pull even harder on his bonds, and the metal linking the two cuffs that secured his hands behind his back had been fortunately just as flimsy.

His hands had been free, and he'd used their shock to strike hard and fast. He'd rammed his fist into the man beside him, sending him slamming into the helicopter like a rag doll. Whirling, he landed another punch into the chest of the other soldier who'd been restraining him. He'd gone down with a scream. And Steve had gone for his gun.

He'd killed three of them before they'd stopped him. It had been futile, but he hadn't regretted it one bit, even as he'd been tackled into the unforgiving cement, even as they'd gone at him with abandon, fueled by rage and frustration and fear. Only Vargas' irate command had stopped them. They'd rebound him stronger than before, wrapping chains around his arms two or three times instead of just once, securing the cuffs tighter around his wrists more firmly together, even slipping a noose of chain around his neck by which to drag him. And they did. They hauled him roughly from the helipad and through Vargas' ornate flowering gardens and into the mansion, laughing and cruelly taunting as he struggled and choked.

Vargas lived in a palace. The floors were gleaming, flawless parquet tiles. Pillars climbed high above to vaulted ceilings comprised of marble and shining, glossy wood. Arched windows were lined with gossamer curtains. The rooms were brimming with expensive furniture, the sort of things Steve could never imagine sitting in given his humble upbringing. Pedestals displayed priceless sculptures and vases, and paintings undoubtedly worth a small fortune adorned the walls. The lavish elegance was disgusting, overblown and bloated as if to proudly proclaim the very depths of the man's ill-gotten gains. Howard Stark and his son were the only other rich men Steve had met. He'd been born during the Depression and had lived in various states of modesty and poverty for most of his life, and personal wealth had been an extreme rarity in his times. But Howard Stark hadn't flaunted his fortune, at least not to the point of warranting disgust. And even Tony, as eccentric and infuriating as he could be, was never this pointlessly extravagant and conceited.

Steve tried his damnedest to stumble and smear blood and mud on the polished floors as much as possible. Sadly it wasn't as hard as it should have been. His arm throbbed mercilessly where he'd been shot. Innumerable bruises and bloody welts littered his face and body. And his abdomen and chest hurt so badly from where he'd been repeatedly kicked that he knew had a few new bruised or fractured ribs, in addition to the freshly aggravated spot where he'd been wounded in the crash days ago. He couldn't breathe very deeply (especially with the chains taut around his neck), nor could he stand to his full height. But he tried his damnedest to do that, too. These men were afraid of him. They were trying to hide it behind cruelty and arrogance and taunts, but he could see it in their eyes. As long as they were intimidated by him, he had some small shred of power.

He'd kill them all, if he could. Drag them to justice. Clint deserved nothing less.

A brunette woman wearing a fine, silk sundress that flowed around her shapely form as she walked appeared at the end of the spacious foyer. She was very beautiful, with chocolate eyes and skin the color of mocha and a dazzling smile she offered Vargas. A dazzling smile like a group of twenty mercenaries armed to the teeth weren't dragging a bound and gagged and beaten man through her home. "_Bienvenido a casa, mi amor._" She slid her hands up Vargas' chest to his shoulders and pressed a passionate kiss to his lips. Steve glared. She caught his gaze as she pulled away from her husband (or lover, but it really didn't matter) and offered a hard look of her own. "_¿__Qui__é__n es?_"

"Captain America," Vargas answered. He looked ridiculously proud of himself. It was revolting.

She smiled. "Welcome, _Capitán_." Her voice was soft, heavily accented with a certain lyrical quality to it. If the circumstances were completely different, Steve might have thought her a charming hostess. As it was, he only saw the same callous disregard and evil in her eyes that he saw in Vargas'. And as it was, he couldn't really answer, so he only hardened his glare and lifted his chin in defiance. She smiled at that, too. "Go do your work," she said to Vargas, slipping a hand to his smooth cheek. "I'll wait for you." Then she sauntered away, glancing over her shoulder once not at Vargas, but at Steve.

Cold chills raced up and down Steve's back.

They were moving him again. He tried to remember the path through the mansion as they wound through corridors and more lavish living spaces to the rear of the compound. They walked through a gourmet kitchen large enough to feed a small restaurant. In the rear there was a dark hallway. To the right there were a series of large, shadowy refrigerators and freezers. To the left was an elevator locked by key code and fingerprint identification. Vargas summoned the lift, and Steve was manhandled inside, held firmly and with every gun pointed at him. The lift silently moved into the basement, and Steve wondered grimly if he was descending into hell.

The base that Clint had destroyed had been significantly larger, but this was no less well fortified or elaborate. It became fairly obvious, as they walked passed storerooms and workrooms, that Vargas' purchase of the Chitauri weapons was not as random as it had seemed. He was as much a weapons dealer as he was a drug dealer, if the huge rooms full of undoubtedly illegally acquired guns and other munitions was any indication. Steve bitterly considered how many terrorist organizations and hostile governments, the sort that threatened their own citizens as much as their enemies, this man was supplying with weapons. The world was certainly different from what he knew, with wars against terrorists and against widespread enemies that carried no flag at all, with battles conducted afar by drones and computers and long range missiles against rogues that wielded bombs. But evil and greed were the same, unchangeable and just as eager to threaten peace and safety.

Surreptitiously he glanced into the rooms they passed, searching for any sign of additional Chitauri weapons. There weren't any that he could see. That was some small consolation. Clint hadn't died in vain.

They led him to a room that was considerably smaller than most of the others. Its purpose was miserably obvious the minute Vargas used his code and thumb print to open the door. Inside there was a single metal chair, bolted to the cement floor. A table filled with unpleasant instruments rested against the wall behind the chair. There were other handcuffs and chains dangling from the ceiling. A few other chairs, these movable and considerably more flimsy, were strewn about. It was an interrogation cell.

"After you, Captain," Vargas said politely as his men manhandled a newly resistant Steve inside. Steve dug his boots into the floor, but the smooth cement offered no purchase. He twisted and turned and fought as best he could. They dragged him to the chair. When he refused to sit, he was struck across the face with the butt of a gun, and the soldiers used his moment of disorientation to force him down. They fastened his hands to the back of the chair and his feet to the legs. A few futile tugs revealed that the seat was as reinforced as the manacles, and breaking free wouldn't be easy, the guns trained upon him notwithstanding.

Vargas watched over the scene with detached approval. When his men were finished, they backed away, but their weapons never lowered. Steve felt a small rush of pride and courage that they still considered him this much of a threat. That was fairly insignificant, however, to the mounting terror in his heart. He'd been captured before, but it had always been part of the plan. He'd never faced torture. He'd been trained to handle it back during the war, but that seemed a woefully impotent shield against what he feared to be coming. "I believe you were right, Captain," Vargas said as he nonchalantly sat in the chair in front of Steve. "I might have been premature in disposing of your friend. He did serve some purpose. As it stands, I'll have to resort to more… _barbaric_ measures to prevent you from escaping."

The bald man, his broken hand newly splinted and bandaged, drew his handgun from his holster and stalked closer to Steve. With a hideous sneer he pressed the muzzle to Steve's left leg, just above his bent knee. Steve howled in fury, but the soldier shot him regardless. The bullet went straight through, puncturing the metal chair beneath him. Pain shot up and down his injured limb, and he screamed, shaking in his restraints. Only a moment passed before he felt the gun shift toward his other leg. Even though he knew the agony was imminent, even though he feared it, _dreaded_ it in that split second, he still wasn't ready. He couldn't find the breath to cry a second time, shuddering and leaning as far forward in the seat as he could to protect himself. Hot blood immediately spilled from the wounds in a hideous torrent, gushing down his pants to puddle beneath his boots. "No need to worry, though. With your rumored invulnerability, these should only prove a temporary deterrent."

Steve breathed raggedly through his nose and glared at his captor, fury blazing in his eyes. He fought to keep conscious, the agony pulsing through his legs battering his hold on awareness. All he could feel was blood and hurt and fear and rage. Vargas seemed completely unfazed by the murderous glower, instead rising from his seat as more of his men entered. Steve clenched his hands into fists when he saw them carry in his shield. Apparently it hadn't been lost or destroyed as he'd feared, though having it in the hands of his enemies was hardly any consolation. Vargas' thugs had obviously found it somewhere near the crash site. He realized quickly that he'd been doomed from the beginning. It suddenly made sick and disturbing sense why Vargas had pursued them so relentlessly. If they hadn't been able to determine who he was from the skirmish outside the base when Clint had destroyed it, the shield had been a dead give-away.

"Have you missed it, Captain?" Vargas asked, undoubtedly seeing the surprise and dismay in his eyes. Steve grunted angrily and looked away, ashamed to have been disarmed. Ashamed to have been captured. And ashamed to have so utterly failed to protect Clint. Maybe they'd been destined to die the minute Clint had attacked the base and the last few days of struggling and running and fighting had been for nothing. But somehow seeing that shield brought it all to bear, how very badly they had fallen. And how very lost he was now. "It was a fine prize to find out in the trees, though not so fine as you. It might even fetch a good price. I've heard it's indestructible. Somebody somewhere will want that, yes?"

Other men entered, bearing a video camera. Vargas nodded to them as they began to set up their equipment. "Now if you would be so kind. We need to film a little presentation, something to entice my prospective buyers. I'd be most appreciative if you would just cooperate. But, if you chose not to, I doubt my customers would care too terribly to see the flag of your country soaked in more blood."

Cooperate? There was no chance in hell. Not after everything these monsters had done. Steve's glare never wavered as the soldiers went about finishing their preparations. The camera stood behind him on a tripod. It was a tiny, sleek silver thing, undoubtedly expensive. One of the men spent a minute glancing at it and adjusting it. Then he backed away.

The bald man approached again and stood to his left. He yanked the gag from Steve's mouth and then unceremoniously pressed the muzzle of his gun to Steve's temple. Vargas stood back beside the camera, his smooth hands clasped before him. "Say your name," commanded the drug lord evenly.

Steve snarled, "Go to hell." His insolence was immediately punished. One of the other men decked him, and Steve's head snapped to the side. His teeth gnashed the soft flesh of his cheek, and blood poured into his mouth. He smiled, refusing to show any sign of pain or weakness. "I can do this all night, fellas."

Vargas wasn't amused. He glanced only once to the bald man, who in turn nodded toward the cluster of mercenaries around him. The next series of blows came quickly and without reprieve. Steve gasped as they battered him, steeling himself for the agony but finding it excruciating all the same. He should have been stronger than this, better able to take the hits. The serum afforded him extraordinary resilience against physical duress. But he was so worn down, first from being impaled in the crash and then from the strenuous days that had followed. His legs throbbed viciously where he'd been shot. The strikes to his head and blood loss were making him extremely dizzy, but he wouldn't surrender. Not to the pain or fear. Not to sorrow over losing Clint. And certainly not to them.

"Tell us your name," Vargas said again.

"Nope."

They came at him again. He jabbed his teeth into his tongue until he tasted blood and refused to scream as hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back into the chair. They unzipped his uniform top and pulled it down off his shoulders. With the thin, protective layer of body armor pushed aside, they rammed their fists into his damaged belly. He couldn't see or think or move as they hit him, battering newly healed ribs and muscle and skin. White heat rushed over him, consuming him, devouring him. When it finally released him, he saw Vargas staring smugly at him. But a tense glimmer in his eyes betrayed his mounting frustration. Steve wasn't sure if he should be proud or terrified. He was both.

The drug lord motioned to the man operating the camera, and the little light on the front of the device shut off momentarily. Vargas walked closer, careful not to tread in the blood on the floor, and sat in front of his wheezing captive again. Steve trembled and sagged, unable to straighten his torso given the pain in his chest, but he lifted his head defiantly. "Captain, you destroyed my base, killed a great deal of my men, and ruined my recent financial investment. Do you have the slightest idea of how much time and money I spent trying to procure those alien weapons? You deeply damaged my business, and for that, normally I would torture you to death, which given your superhuman level of physical endurance, would be exceedingly slow and painful. However, I would much rather recoup some of my losses. I would much rather turn a profit from this entire mess."

"Why should I give a damn what you want?" Steve asked haltingly. With unspeakable malice in his eyes, he lurched forward in the chair, fueled by energy borne from hatred and panic. His bonds didn't break, probably wouldn't have even if he had the entirety of his strength behind him, but they creaked and bent and Vargas' eyes went wide in sudden horror. He jerked backward, nearly tipping his chair, and, were it not for the men behind him to steady him, he would have ended up on the floor.

Steve's lips curled into a small, satisfied smirk before the bald man's hand wove its way through his hair and yanked him backward. The gun was at his temple again. Vargas stood, shaken but more enraged than anything. For the first time, he actually lowered himself to the level of his hired help and slapped Steve roughly across the face. Blood splatted from Steve's broken lips and stained the drug lord's expensive pants. There was a shrill ringing in Steve's ears as the bald man yanked his head back by his hair so that he was looking at Vargas. "You little shit." He slapped Steve again. "Don't be stupid. There's no sense in this. Your friend is dead. Your defiance gains you nothing. I would rather sell you whole and undamaged, but I _will_ sell you and I don't care what I have to do to make that happen. Do you understand? _¿__Comprendas_?"

"I think 'no' is just 'no' in Spanish, right?" Steve slurred. He glanced around to the other men in a mock show of searching for confirmation. He turned his eyes back to Vargas and glared with all his might. "No."

"If I need to go through the trouble of torturing you, I would rather ask you questions I don't know the answers to. I care nothing about your so-called Avengers, but I'm sure there are people who do. People who would probably pay handsomely for information. You know things that could be valuable. Surely you didn't find the means and opportunity to assault my base of operations alone. You may be strong but you are certainly not that smart. Would you rather we go down that road?"

Steve gritted his teeth, not liking where this was going one bit. He didn't think he knew much that could compromise SHIELD, and even if he did, he highly doubted Vargas had the power to pose the spy organization much of a threat. But Steve did know about the Avengers, about Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. He knew about Natasha Romanoff, who, last he had heard, was infiltrating Vargas' drug network undercover. He knew things that could endanger innocents if the information landed in the wrong hands. "You're a greedy bastard," he venomously said, trying to mask his defeat but failing.

"I thought not. Let's try this again," Vargas said. He nodded to the soldier near the camera again, and the small device dinged as it was reactivated and that light turned on again. "Tell me your name."

He looked away, wanting to be strong, to distance himself from the pain and fear, but Vargas had struck him where it hurt. He'd already let Clint down, let him die. He couldn't do the same to Romanoff, wherever she was. She was at risk and vulnerable if she was still among Vargas' men. He knew he could withstand pain better than almost anyone, but he wasn't invincible. He had no doubt Vargas would be as twisted and sadistic as he threatened. How many days could he outlast them? How much could he take? Clint had promised him that SHIELD would find him. He didn't know how or when or if that was even likely. And Clint had been delirious. Obviously he'd thought Steve was another of Vargas' soldiers or who knew what. Why else would he have attacked him like that when they'd been separated?

The small wound in his leg where Clint had stabbed him with the arrow stung. He wasn't sure how he was able to concentrate on that given the pounding in his head and the burning in his legs and the throbbing in his chest and the fear twisting his heart. But it was all he could feel for a moment. And the bitterness of guilt.

The men got impatient. Someone rammed the butt of his rifle into Steve's bleeding right leg, and he howled. The vindictive thug slammed the gun down again and again. Steve lost count of the number of strikes; after a few infinite seconds filled with misery, it all blended together in fiery, pulsating torment. They didn't give him much chance to recover his composure. The bald man pulled cruelly on his hair to force him to look at the camera. "Answer. What's your name?"

Every shred of him screamed that he stay silent. But he thought of Clint and the slow and agonizing demise he'd surely faced. Alone. And he couldn't let that happen to Romanoff or anyone else. "Steve Rogers," he said lowly.

"Louder, please."

The hand in his hair yanked harder, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Steve Rogers."

"Otherwise known as?"

He ground his teeth together. "Captain America."

"The first Avenger, yes?"

He couldn't believe he was doing this. "Yes."

"And who am I?"

For some reason, answering that was even harder than the questions preceding it. Somehow answering that was tantamount to admitting their mistakes and failures, to admitting Clint had died for nothing. So he didn't. Until the bastard who'd brutalized his damaged leg further took a crack at the other one. "Juan Vargas!"

"And why are you here?"

He was tempted to lie or insult or spit fire. He was tempted to keep disobeying. But it was rather hopeless, and they both knew it. "You captured me. You want to sell me," he answered. The thought was becoming more and more terrifying because it was more and more _real_ and inevitable.

"Why?"

"Because you're a sick son of a bitch," Steve snapped. That earned him another blow to his leg. At this point, the damage was severe enough that the place where he'd been shot was actually becoming numb.

"Why?" Vargas pressed.

"I'm a super soldier." It was strange to call himself that. He had been labeled that by others, by Dr. Erskine and Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt and the Red Skull in his time, by Director Fury and the late Agent Coulson and others at SHIELD in this one. But he'd never thought about himself as anything other than who he was. Still, people didn't want Steve Rogers. People didn't care about Steve Rogers, not when he'd been a sick boy never able to prove himself and certainly not when he'd become the indispensable symbol of the bravery, strength, and determination of the United States during the war. Everyone wanted Captain America. Everyone except Bucky. And Peggy. And maybe Clint and the other Avengers, if time had been fairer. And that made tears spring to his eyes, tears that he would _never_ let fall in front of these monsters.

"Explain that," Vargas ordered sharply.

He gathered his thoughts, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say to that. It was hard to submit. This was humiliating in a way he hadn't anticipated. He felt naked, exposed. Vulnerable. "I'm strong. I can run faster, move faster, than anyone. I heal quickly. I can't be drugged. I have a photographic memory. I…" He didn't say anymore. He wouldn't.

"And how did you become so endowed?"

Steve looked away, fighting the flush of rage and embarrassment heating his face. "I was given a serum."

And then Vargas took over. It would be a lie to say Steve wasn't relieved. "And that is what I offer. Locked in this man's blood is the key to reproducing the chemical that created him. To further prove my honesty…" The man carrying Steve's shield approached and set it to the floor in front of him. The camera focused on it for a moment, and Steve closed his eyes and weathered a storm of such vicious emotion that jabbing his teeth into his lower lip and trembling was all he could do to keep his rage and fear and grief contained.

The camera shut off. The men took it and his shield away. Vargas smiled, clearly pleased and relieved. "Thank you, Captain."

Steve narrowed his eyes and stared at his captor, feeling emboldened again now that the camera was gone. "Better put a warning on that. I'll kill myself before I let anyone get their hands on what you're offering."

Vargas' grin was sweet and placating and damn infuriating. "I don't doubt it. But you won't get the chance under my watch. And if you do once I sell you, well, that's the problem of whoever was stupid enough to buy you, isn't it?"

Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't understand how anyone could be so selfish and cruel and sadistic. "You're crazy and stupid if you think you'll get away with this. You can't sell Captain America without the world knowing. Someone will come for me." Hopefully he didn't betray just how doubtful of his assertion he truly was.

"If they were going to, they would have already," Vargas said, quite sure of himself.

Steve barely contained his fury, knowing he didn't have the strength as badly injured as he was to act. "I won't submit. I'll fight you every step of the way. You'll pay for everything you've done!"

"No, I'll _get_ paid. You don't seem to understand the enormity of what you took from me when you destroyed my weapons. And you don't seem to understand that I don't get caught, that I don't lose. That no one, not your government or the Avengers or _whoever _sent you to destroy me – no one can stop me!" The bastard had the gall to laugh at that. "Well, let's enlighten you. A lesson is in order. _Muchachos_, teach him."

Steve's blood ran cold. The gag was stuffed back in his mouth and tightened. He was unfastened from the chair and hauled to his feet. His legs utterly refused to support his weight, and he stumbled, while they half-dragged, half-carried him away from the chair. They threw him roughly to the floor. Vargas stood over him, looming, and though his lips were locked in that handsome, _awful_ smile, his eyes were glinting with an ugly anticipation of violence. "If I have to beat you continually to keep you too injured to fight us, then I will. You will regret your… _super_ powers then, I think. And you will regret crossing me."

The drug lord turned and nodded to his men. The door to the room opened and closed with a resounding thud.

The bald man planted his boot on Steve's chest and shoved him down into the floor with all his weight. "You heard the boss man," he sneered. "It's learning time."

The soldiers approached, most shouldering or set their guns aside because they didn't need them. Their prisoner was bound and gagged and wounded already. Helpless. No longer a threat. Their eyes were alight with that same awful excitement. Arrogance that _they'd_ captured Captain America. Pride that Captain America was completely at _their_ mercy. It was like a disease in this place, poisoning everything and everyone. Steve wished ardently Clint had eradicated them all.

But, more than that, as he braced himself for the beating he knew was coming, he wished he was out there in that field with Clint. Or that Clint was here in hell with him. At least that way neither of them would have suffered alone.

* * *

_Bienvenido a casa, mi amor_. – Welcome home, my love.

_¿__Qui__é__n es? _– Who's this?_  
_

_Capitán_ – Captain

_¿__Comprendas_? – Understand?

_Muchachos _– Boys_  
_


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**11**

Someone was with him. Someone with soft, strong, sure hands. Hands that tenderly grasped his and didn't let go. Fingers that brushed through his hair. Someone with a soft, familiar voice, calm and comforting. Murmuring solace and encouragement. He wasn't afraid now. Someone was with him, so if he died, he wouldn't die alone.

Other things came more slowly. He wasn't in pain anymore. The agony that had become his constant companion was blessedly gone. That gave him some pause; maybe he _had_ died, and he was imagining this companion of his. Maybe it was the last effort of his fading spirit to ease his anguish, a hallucination to make letting go easier. But that didn't seem right, because he was fairly certain his skin and clothes weren't wet anymore. He wasn't hot or filthy. He was laying on something soft in someplace quiet and cool. That could only mean that he'd been rescued.

When that conclusion formed in his hazy mind, the relief to be free, to be _alive_, was so strong that he gasped a soft sob.

"Clint?"

His eyelids were impossibly heavy, and when he finally managed to part them, nothing was in focus. Fuzzy lights dimmed to a comforting level appeared overhead. There was the shuffling of cloth, and then weight settled next to him. That hand tightened around his, a thumb drawing comforting circles over his knuckles. A shadowy blob loomed over him, haloed by the pale illumination above. He blinked, trying to clear his teary vision enough to focus. Eventually the blurry features gathered into someone he recognized. A pale, beautiful face framed by dark red hair. Blue eyes watched him worriedly. He tried to speak, but nothing seemed to work right. "… tasha?"

Natasha smiled. She was relieved, but intense concern remained in her gaze. "Yes," she said gently.

The effort of looking at her and figuring out who she was had exhausted him. He closed his eyes again, trying to lick his miserably dry lips. Her small, cool hand on his brow was infinitely pleasurable, a soothing balm. She was anchoring him. "Where am I?" he asked softly. His own voice was little more than a strained, unrecognizable whisper.

"Aboard the carrier," she answered. "You've been unconscious for three days." She sighed softly. "Sorry you were on your own for so long. Once word got through Vargas' forces that you destroyed the base, it took us a while to figure out what happened and find you without drawing attention to ourselves. Your jet went down without ever transmitting your coordinates."

He didn't understand all of that. It was too much. His memories were so jumbled, twisted by nightmare and delirium, that he couldn't piece together the horrific chain of events that had landed him in this sorry state. Then a singular thought blasted through the clouds in his head, and panic rushed over him like a jolt of nauseating lightning. Feebly he reached downward, squeezing his eyes shut in sudden pain. "My leg..."

She took his other hand and held them both to his heaving chest. He was too weak to fight her. "The doctors were able to save it," she said. Hearing that supplied him with enough courage to lift his head (which felt tremendously heavy) and look down the length of his body. It was true. His right leg was mercifully _still there_, wrapped thickly in gauze and propped at the knee by a couple of pillows. He fell back, gasping and trembling. Tears leaked from his eyes, tears of pain and gratitude and relief. Experimentally he wiggled his toes, felt them move against each other and the fabric of the sock that covered his foot. That was more confirmation that this was real, that he wasn't dreaming or stuck back in the hellish delirium that had consumed him by the riverbank. That he'd been rescued and they'd saved his leg.

Natasha's voice cut through the euphoric roar of his shuddering heart. "It was bad, Clint. Really bad. They lost you on the operating table. They almost didn't get you back." She said the words evenly, emotionlessly, as she said everything. As was her way. But he knew her well enough to hear the pain behind them that others would have missed, to see the fear in her eyes that others would never have noticed. Someone else would have downplayed it or lied about it to spare him the trauma of knowing he'd very nearly died. But not her. She respected him too much for that. "They avoided amputation, but you still lost a fair amount of muscle. It'll leave a hell of a scar."

_Lost muscle._ "Will I be able to walk?" he whispered.

"Not without a limp. Your leg is permanently damaged."

_Permanently damaged_. The words reverberated in his skull, painfully pounding into him until it was all he could think, all he could feel, all he knew. All he was. _Permanently damaged._ He wouldn't walk again without a limp. Abruptly, the life he'd just barely salvaged seemed irrecoverably altered. He couldn't be who he had been. He couldn't be an agent for SHIELD, a spy, an Avenger if he was weakened by a lamed leg.

Natasha seemed to know what he was thinking without him ever saying a word. She always did. She turned and brought a plastic cup of water close and slid an arm under his shoulders to help him sit up, simultaneously inclining his bed. He drank slowly, the taste of fresh, icy water not nearly as glorious as it should have been. When he was finished, she set the cup back to the little table beside his bed. "Hey, at least you're alive. And there are treatments the doctors are willing to try. SHIELD is on the cutting edge of medical technology. Plus we have Banner and Stark."

Her assurances fell on deaf ears. He felt himself nod; it was some sort of involuntary reaction because he certainly never thought to do it. He wasn't thinking of much of anything now. He was feeling. They probably had him on some fairly potent painkillers; he felt like he was seeing and hearing through a vacuum. Like the world seemed as though it was right before him, but it was really miles and miles away, distant and detached, and he couldn't muster the will or energy to try and reach it. His leg was numb, but his mind had grown so acclimated to the constant pain that he could have sworn it was throbbing. He could have sworn his shoulder hurt. He could have sworn there was something he was supposed to do, something he needed to say…

It all came back in a jolting rush, and he lurched forward, his eyes wide and his breath short. "Steve," he whispered. Panic sent the monitors around him wailing as his heart rate skyrocketed. A cold sweat doused him instantly. He shot wild eyes to Natasha and grabbed her hand. "Vargas has the Cap!"

"Easy," she soothed, tightly squeezing his hand while gently pushing him back to lay more prostrate in the bed. "We know. We're working on it."

Clint was shaking in sudden terror. His mind was racing, despite the cocktail of analgesics and other medications being pumped into his veins through the IV in his arm. Three days he'd been unconscious. Three days since Steve had sacrificed himself to try and save his life. Three days since Vargas had taken Captain America prisoner. _Three days_. "Damn it," Clint whispered, a horrible, foul weight of guilt and shame and rage pressing on his heart until it seemed hard to breathe. "Where is he?"

Natasha seemed hesitant, the fullness of her lips growing taut in a hard frown. Clearly she didn't want to divulge what they knew. But she knew he wouldn't be satisfied with anything other than the truth. Again, it came down to her respect for him. He'd saved her life more times than either of them could count. He'd saved _her_, reprogrammed her, made her into what she was from what she'd been. His orders had been to kill her, but he'd defied them, faced the wrath of his superiors, just to give her a chance. He'd never asked anything of her in return, but she had always offered him the truth. As much as she could stand to offer anyone.

"Vargas has him at his estate. It's a couple hundred miles north from where we found you. We know he's alive," Romanoff explained. Clint felt slightly absolved at that, but he quickly realized that, with a man as powerful, sadistic, and arrogant as Vargas, alive did not necessarily guarantee Rogers was well. And he knew she wasn't telling him everything. "It's getting to him that's the problem."

He didn't want to hear anymore. "I want in," he said firmly, and then he planted his hands into the hospital bed and pushed himself up. Suddenly the morphine wasn't enough; his shoulder began to burn with the strain of lifting his leaden form, and then his whole body shook with the effort and with agony he was barely capable of withstanding. The muscles (or what was left of them) in his thigh contracted and the skin around the wound stretched. The hurt was unbearable. But he jabbed his teeth into his lower lip and stifled it.

"Clint, you can't be serious," she said, trying to push him back again. He fought even harder to sit up, to move his leg, but it was excruciating and he succumbed, crying out and gasping. "Don't be an idiot. You're in no shape to be out of this bed. You almost died."

"And Rogers still might. I got out, and he didn't," Clint snapped bitterly. _It's not supposed to work that way._

Natasha stared at him. Her expression was unreadable, but Clint could imagine what was going through her head. Doubt. Confusion. When he'd left the helicarrier on this mission with the unwanted Captain America at his side, he'd been irate, annoyed to all hell, in fact, that Fury thought he had needed a babysitter for the sort of job he'd done alone and without any trouble countless times in the past. Now he couldn't bear the thought of Rogers alone, prisoner and at the mercy of the sort of monster he knew Vargas would be. She didn't know the truth of what had happened, but she could guess. And she did.

"If you want to do this, I won't stop you. But you will keep your ass in a wheelchair."

He nodded, grim and determined. He sure as hell knew better than to cross the Black Widow.

* * *

The doctors were none too pleased to see their patient leave the infirmary, but Romanoff's curt words and sharp glares quickly silenced their objections. For her sake, Clint tried his hardest to appear much surer of this plan than he felt. The mere act of shifting from the hospital bed to the wheelchair had been utterly exhausting, draining his energy and resolve even with Natasha's guiding hands and strong support. The pain had been overwhelming and slow to recede, though it did fade (probably thanks to Romanoff upping his morphine drip). She'd wheeled his IV machine that regulated his various bags of saline and pain medications and antibiotics along with them after draping a blanket across his lap. And then they were off, headed as quickly as she could manage through the gunmetal gray corridors of the helicarrier toward the command center.

Clint had never felt so weak, so low. So ashamed. Every pair of eyes they passed, from agents to soldiers to computer geeks to the janitorial staff… _Every_ pair was on him. Wondering what the hell had happened to one of the best assassins, one of the most powerful agents, one of the _Avengers_. The scrutiny was oppressive. Clint prided himself on his ability to ignore distractions, to not give a damn what other people thought, but he felt completely exposed as he was pushed through the corridors. Like all his walls, all his poise, all his strength had been utterly stripped away. His mistakes were on display for everyone to see and analyze and judge. Clint Barton had failed in his mission. Clint Barton had let the enemy prevail. Clint Barton had let Captain America be captured. Clint Barton had been compromised.

Hawkeye had missed his mark.

He suddenly wasn't so sure he was glad to be alive.

The torture lasted far too long before they were safe in the elevator. Clint released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, sinking as much as he could into the wheelchair. Natasha undoubtedly noticed. She wasn't looking at him, but Clint knew she saw everything. "You don't have to do this," she said. It wasn't a suggestion or an assurance or anything other than a plain and simple statement of fact. "We're taking care of it."

Clint didn't answer. She didn't need a response, probably hadn't even expected one, so when the doors to the elevator opened and revealed the bridge, she didn't hesitate in pushing him out. He knew the obstacles that he faced; it wasn't her job to educate him or dissuade him, so she didn't. She only wheeled him away from the bridge, a bridge full of agents and specialists making a point _not_ to notice the very odd sight of the Black Widow pushing a pale and beaten Hawkeye in a wheelchair through the command center. Her thumb print and retinal scan got them inside one of the conference rooms.

At the door opening, the room's occupants turned. Director Fury was the first on his feet. But Tony Stark was the first to speak. "Looks like the bird's out of his nest," he quipped. His well-groomed face was its usual picture of narcissistic nonchalance, but even he couldn't completely mask his concern.

Fury was angry, his good eye flashing. "What the hell are you doing out of medical, Agent Barton?"

But Clint didn't answer. His gaze was fixed upon the large touch screen behind Stark where a fairly disturbing video was playing. "What is that?" he asked weakly.

Romanoff pushed him up to the sleek metal conference table and then stepped closer to the screen. "We picked it up a few hours ago. Vargas is sending it encrypted to some bad people around the world. Terrorists. Dictators. Mad scientists. No offense, doc."

Bruce Banner shrugged slightly. "None taken."

"Right now we're just trying to determine if this is real," Natasha said.

The volume on the video was low so it was difficult to discern the dialogue. Still Clint could imagine what was being said. And he knew beyond any doubt that what they were seeing, that Steve Rogers bound in a chair and bleeding profusely and being taunted by an off-screen Vargas, being forced to participate in some goddamn _commercial_, was completely authentic. "It's real," Clint said tightly, averting his eyes from the horrific display.

"You know for sure?" Fury asked.

His memories of the skirmish in the village and what happened after it were clouded and scattered, but he did clearly recall some things. Heat rushed over him. His lips moved. He heard his voice, dead and even in his confession. "Cap turned himself over to them to get me out of there."

Stark rolled his eyes. "Well, that freaking figures. Obviously Star-Spangled Spandex has never seen _Spaceballs._" At the annoyed, questioning glances, he clarified. "Evil will always triumph because good is dumb. I swear that line was written with him in mind."

Fury wasn't amused. He settled an icy glare on Clint. "What happened?" he asked curtly.

Again, all eyes were on him. He didn't know how much they wanted to hear, and he didn't know how much he wanted to say. He tried to seem cool and collected like he hadn't made a horrendous mistake that nearly cost him his life and had probably cost him his career. Like he hadn't landed Steve in the hands of a monster. Normally he didn't lie about the details of a mission. However, there were times where he kept some things to himself. He decided this was going to be one of those times. "The jet was shot down. Agent Farris was dead on impact. Rogers and I were wounded, but we escaped and managed to avoid Vargas' men for a few days. They eventually caught us taking refuge in one of the local villages. We tried to hold them off, but we were outnumbered."

"We saw the bodies," Banner said darkly.

Clint nodded, trying not to think of the field of dead that had nearly claimed him as another corpse. "Vargas wanted the Cap to… recoup his losses. Rogers tried to negotiate, but they took him and left me."

"You mean he took the heat for you," Stark clarified. The billionaire was worried, though he was doing his best not to seem it. He was also extremely perceptive. "They wouldn't have left you behind if they knew who you were. Not like Rogers could hide who he was, prancing around looking like Uncle Sam barfed all over him."

"Vargas specifically mentioned he wanted to sell Captain America," Fury said, "and you did nothing to stop it?"

Clint ground his teeth, trying to keep his emotions in check. "With all due respect, sir, I wasn't in much of a position to fight."

The smoldering frustration on Fury's face was nearly frightening. "No, you weren't." Clint wasn't sure what the director meant by that, but whatever he left unsaid, his disappointment was starkly clear. It was as if he knew everything, that Clint had been the one to destroy the base, that Clint had lied about his wounded leg for days, that Clint had faltered during the skirmish and Clint had failed to stand at his teammate's side. That Clint had done _nothing_ while Steve had surrendered himself. Maybe his gravely injured, feverish state at the time made his inaction excusable, but it would never have gotten that bad, that _out of control_, if not for the series of mistakes and poor choices before it.

Thankfully, Natasha spoke and spared Clint any more of the dark and miserable quiet. "How it happened doesn't matter. We need to get the Cap out of there."

"Easier said than done," Banner said, squinting slightly and pushing his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. The silver frames caught the light of the images around him. "If the satellite images are accurate, Vargas' estate has security that rivals most missile silos. There are four guard towers that we can clearly see, each probably armed to the teeth. Any attack in any direction they will see coming. It's like a fortress."

"Unfortunately," Natasha said. "Even if we could sneak past that, there's a fifteen foot wall that completely lines the perimeter, broken by only front and rear gates that are continually guarded."

"Wait, wait," Stark said, shaking his head. "Who the hell said anything about sneaking? We're the Avengers. _We don't sneak_. Let's follow a good example – " He paused and darted a glance at Clint. "– and light the place up." Clint closed his weary, burning eyes. How the hell did everyone know? _Nat said the story about the base went through Vargas' organization. But they didn't know it was me. _He stopped himself. What the hell did it matter?

"Vargas isn't just a drug lord. He deals in _weapons_," Romanoff said sharply, drawing Clint's attention. She shot an icy glare at Stark. "Big weapons. My sources say this is where he's keeping a sizeable store of them. You want to take the chance of setting something off?"

Stark looked disgusted and irritated at once. "What? Nuclear? Or the Chitauri weapons?"

"I can't confirm anything yet. We think most if not all of the Chitauri weapons were destroyed along with the base, but there's no way to verify that until I get in there and assess the situation. But even if he has no WMDS, he has enough of an arsenal to pose a serious threat. We can't risk a frontal assault. We have no idea what he's got at his disposal. The only thing we do know is that he's dangerous and probably not afraid to use whatever he has."

"Not to mention that if we charge in there, guns blazing, he could kill Steve before we even get close to him. For all intents and purposes, Steve is his hostage," Banner added grimly, "and it doesn't look like he's going to be in any condition to help us."

"Ugh," Stark groaned. "Stealth really isn't my style."

"Which is why we didn't bring you in on this in the first place," Fury reminded coolly. "But you're here now, and we need to get Captain Rogers out of there like yesterday. He _will not_ be sold to the highest bidder. Not on my watch."

Banner sighed gently. He was clearly very troubled, and Clint immediately knew why. This situation hit too close to home. "I doubt it would matter. It's nearly impossible to extract the serum from Steve's body. It's become part of him on a cellular level. It's fused into his genetic code. The top minds in the world have been trying for decades to recreate Doctor Erskine's work to no avail."

"Just because we couldn't doesn't mean it can't be done," Stark reminded logically.

"I don't care," Fury said, eyeing the Avengers tensely. "Even the possibility of the super soldier serum falling into the wrong hands is unthinkable. There are factions in this world – not to mention our galaxy – that would use and abuse its power, and no one on earth would be safe. That cannot be allowed to happen."

"So what's the plan then?" Stark asked impatiently, looking angrily around the room. It was saying something that he was even involving the others in his actions and decisions. That he was willing to defer so they could work as a team. It was a testament to what the battle in Manhattan had meant to all of them. Clint didn't care much for Stark; he was flashy and obsessed with himself and far too reckless. But the man was brilliant, a genius and a powerhouse in every sense, and an asset to the team. And he didn't seem at all pleased with Fury's attitude concerning Steve. Clint truthfully wasn't, either. Of course they could never allow the super soldier serum to be sold to the villains in the world. But this was _Steve_, damn it. Not just some nameless soldier, not just their would-be leader, and not just Captain America, even. Fury had reduced him to a variable, a liability rather than a person. It was a familiar mindset, the sort that Clint had been well-trained to embrace, because it made making tough choices and difficult actions clearer. Easier. Stripping away the emotional attachments and moral ambiguities by dehumanizing the situation made pulling the trigger that much simpler.

Well, he wasn't going to do it this time. And it was pretty obvious Stark wouldn't, either. Or Banner. And hopefully not Romanoff, but here he could only trust that she would remember it had been _his choice_ to see her as a person rather than a target. Steve was a person, too. Far more than a teammate. His friend.

Natasha looked back to the touch screen and gently tapped a few of the controls. The video fell away and new items appeared. The satellite images Bruce had mentioned earlier were there, as well as what looked like blueprints for Vargas' estate and maps of the surrounding area. "Vargas is arrogant, but he's not stupid. He knows this is game-changing, one way or another. He's trying to unload a large percentage of his weapons all at once."

"Clearing house. He's moving," Banner said.

"Looks that way," Romanoff confirmed.

"Taking the money and running," Stark added, staring at the layout of Vargas' massive estate. He rubbed his chin, his mind clearly racing behind narrowed eyes. "How much money is it, anyway?"

Natasha's eyes glinted in anger. "He's taking bids. One of our agents undercover in Pakistan checked in this morning to let us know the extremist factions in the Pakistani government are out of the running. It's upwards of two hundred million US dollars."

Tony shifted his weight. The man never stood still. "I'll make this remarkably easy, because I'm awesome like that. I'll just buy him. Problem solved."

"If you weren't so busy plastering your face all over the news all the time, that might have been an option. But Vargas will never sell Captain America to Tony Stark. That has 'trap' written all over it," Natasha retorted.

"Money is money, and if this guy is as greedy as he seems, he won't care where it comes from. He's practically one step away from posting Steve on eBay. That doesn't ring of patience, does it?" Tony argued. He folded his arms obstinately over his chest. "It'll hurt, but I can afford it."

"He'll never go for it," Clint muttered. Everybody looked to him as though they'd forgotten he was there. They might have. He'd been silent and brooding for the last few minutes. It was touching that Stark was willing to spend _that_ ridiculous amount of money to save Rogers, but Clint knew in his bones that it wouldn't work. "He's vindictive to the core. It's not just about getting rich. It's about vengeance." Vargas surely found satisfaction in funding the vicious and power-hungry people of the world. In causing chaos and anarchy and bloodshed. He could have tested those Chitauri weapons on _anything_, but he had chosen the small, the weak, the vulnerable. That sort of sadism was hungry and insatiable and Clint knew it too well to buy into optimism. Steve's beaten and bloody form was a testament to the joy Vargas found in cruelty.

"Obviously this guy was a lot more dangerous than you realized, Director," Banner said, shooting an unreadable look at Fury. It was difficult to tell if he was upset. Banner was a master at keeping himself calm. He had to be.

"Which is another reason why spending our way out of this mess isn't an option," Fury said evenly. "I appreciate the sentiment, Stark, but this guy needs to go down. Maybe it was all just dumb luck and bad mistakes on our part that led to this situation, but we can't walk away now that we know the extent of what this man has and what he plans to do with it. This guy does business with some _very_ dangerous people. He's selling weapons to al Qaeda, Hamas, and dozens of other terrorist organizations and oppressive regimes scattered throughout the world. He's trafficking drugs into the United States, South America, and across the Atlantic. This is the sort of problem the world can't afford to ignore."

"So we take him out," Tony said irately. "Back to my original question: what's our plan?"

Natasha wasn't at all riled by the tension. She calmly magnified the three-dimensional rendering of the blueprints with a swipe of her fingers to the screen. "This is the estate. It's about ten thousand square feet. It's completely outfitted with state-of-art surveillance equipment. Motion, heat, impact sensors. The works. Everything is top of the line. Vargas isn't afraid to spend it to make it." The computer smoothly animated a virtual walkthrough, dipping down below the first floor into the basement. "This is his command center, a reinforced concrete basement some twenty feet below the surface. I can't verify this yet, but he's probably keeping Rogers captive down here. This is also where he has four or five sizeable store rooms loaded with guns and munitions. We don't have much information about the security in the basement, or how to reach it from the mansion above. We're going to need to do some reconnaissance before we can even attempt to infiltrate."

"How long is that going to take?" Banner asked worriedly.

"I've already gotten myself in. In the morning, I'll have more information." Natasha didn't say anything more, and it was probably best they didn't know. Clint knew how very good she was at her profession. She excelled at lies and manipulation almost as much as she excelled at killing. "On Friday, Vargas is planning on making a large shipment of guns north to Mexico. This has been confirmed by two of his lieutenants. What this means for us is a convenient distraction. I don't have exact numbers, but it looks to be hundreds of guns that will be packed and loaded onto trucks. Dozens of his men will be involved with this, so it'll buy us some cover to get in there and get the Cap out. By then, I'll have a better idea of where he is."

Clint suddenly jerked forward in his seat. His heart sped in his chest, and a cold wash of excitement rolled over his beaten body, electrifying him with renewed energy. He'd been so stupid to have not mentioned this earlier, but his brain was still so muddled with emotion and drugs and trauma that he hadn't remembered until now. "We'll know exactly where he is," he said. "Before they took him, I hit him with a homing arrow."

"You hit him?" Stark asked incredulously. "As in shot him?"

"Stabbed him in the leg actually," Clint said sharply, not appreciating Stark's tone. He turned back to the others and tried to ignore how the room was starting to spin and the knot that was forming in his throat. "The range isn't great, just a couple hundred feet. Assuming they didn't find it on him, it should become operational with an activation signal." Normally that signal would have come from his bow, but he supposed something else could be modified to link with the transponder, which was hopefully small enough to avoid notice.

They were silent a moment. Natasha glanced from him to Fury and then to Banner and Stark. "It's better than nothing. Think you guys can rig me something to track the signal?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," Bruce said. For the first time, he looked hopeful. "We can probably fit it into a standard smart phone. That way it won't look too suspicious for you to be checking it."

Natasha nodded. "This will make things easier. But we'll still need to move fast. We've got intel that Friday may also be the day Vargas' prospective buyers are coming."

Friday. The chronometer on the touch screen proclaimed that it was Wednesday night. Clint closed his eyes.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't we?" Stark said. "Something tells me this will turn into an epic disaster if the lucky winners of the Captain America lottery actually fly off with their prize."

"We don't have much choice," Fury responded. He looked outwardly calm, but Clint had worked for the master spy long enough to detect the concern bleeding into his voice and the tension in his frame. "We have to hope Vargas' negotiations with whoever comes to buy Rogers happen during the preparations for the arms shipment. If we get lucky, Agent Romanoff can slip inside and get to the Cap without being noticed. Then we can initiate a full assault, draw their attention away, and she can hopefully get him out to an extraction point."

"You don't sound too sure about any of this," Stark said, leveling a frustrated glare at Fury.

"It's the best we can do until we learn more about the situation," the director curtly responded. Clint could tell he was fighting to maintain his composure. He'd never seen Fury lose control, never seen him falter. But the director was baleful, and Clint feared that he knew why. "And you've never cared about certainty before."

Stark stepped closer to the other man, his stance completely confrontational. "Never had to rescue anyone before," he responded. "Now I need to worry about getting someone killed other than myself, so, yeah, certainty is good."

"I'll come back with certainty tomorrow," Natasha tersely promised, and the cold look she shot Stark was an obvious warning to let it go. "Cap's tough. He'll make it another day."

Clint now knew beyond any doubt that Steve was _very_ tough, maybe tougher than any of them. But he'd witnessed Rogers at what he could only assume was his weakest, and that wasn't something he ever wanted to see again. It was easy to forget under Steve's calm, commanding, _confident_ exterior that he was only a kid. And he didn't deserve any of this.

Fury clearly wasn't satisfied with the myriad unknowns and time constraints, but he only said, "Look, this is all we can do for now. So let's get on it. I want Vargas knocked down and his network dismantled, but I want him unharmed if we can manage it. Then we'll see what sort of information he's willing to sell to buy his own life." Clint didn't want to think about sparing Vargas. His hands balled into fists in the blanket on his lap. No matter what that bastard knew, he didn't deserve even a chance at mercy.

"Make it happen," Fury demanded. "Dismissed." The meeting was over, but Fury wasn't finished. It was clear what he wanted, if the hard, unwavering look the man was giving Clint was any indication. "Agent Barton, I want a word."

Stark glanced from Clint to Fury to Banner. He smirked and started toward the door, Bruce following him. "I sense the smack down coming. Let's go do our homework before we get in trouble, too."

Rage blossomed through Clint, but he steeled his face and refused to respond to Stark's stupidity. The two Avengers departed, Bruce sending Clint something of a sympathetic frown before following Tony out the door. Natasha slowly and unwillingly took her leave, hiding her worry as well as she could. Her lingering glance was teeming with concern for him, but she wasn't without her own questions. Her own accusations. They were partners, master spies and master assassins. They didn't screw up. Clint kept his gaze on his lap, seeing through the fabric of the blanket and his hospital gown and the thick bandages to the throbbing misery of his damaged leg. The pain would never go away.

The doors swished shut, and he was alone with Fury. At least the tense silence was brief. "What the hell happened down there?" Fury demanded, folding his arms across his chest and looking down on Clint from across the table. "You had a simple mission, one you've completed successfully countless times in the past. Go in. Stay down. Get the intel we need, and get the hell out. Like a ghost. They were never supposed to know you were there. But you shot it all to hell. And I know it was you. Rogers may be the world's best soldier, but he's a still a soldier. Soldiers follow orders."

Clint's heart was pounding. He felt dizzy and nauseous and a cold sweat was breaking out all over his body and making his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin. He didn't know what he could say to defend himself. He wasn't even sure he was worth defending. "I'm sorry, sir." That seemed pretty pathetic and insufficient. Like an apology could make it better when the damage had already and irrecoverably been done.

"What happened, Barton?"

Clint averted his eyes, trying to conjure up some excuse. But he couldn't explain it. He couldn't explain how, after years of turning a blind eye to the atrocities around him, he had lost his cool. He had been painstakingly trained to _never lose his cool._ "I made it personal."

"You don't do personal," Fury returned, annunciating every word painfully slowly. Clint flinched and closed his eyes as if he'd been physically struck. "Personal gets people killed." He didn't need to hear that. He knew it was his fault, and his guilt would never let him forget. "Is it possible you misunderstood the mission objectives?"

That was a thinly veiled insult. He hadn't willfully disobeyed. He'd just been stupid. Maybe, in some way, that was better and a more forgivable failing. Fury wasn't given to being cruel, but he could cut like a knife when it suited him. Clint had never before been on the receiving end of his carefully contained wrath. But he held himself together, ignoring the hurt and shame and anger. "No, sir. I just made a bad call."

Fury grunted a coarse, little laugh. "You're damn right you did. This could become a serious situation if Vargas succeeds in selling Captain Rogers, not only for him but for the safety and security of the world. I know you didn't mean for things to get this out of control, but it happened because you let emotion get in the way."

"I know," Clint answered wearily.

"You're a good agent, Barton. One of the best I've ever known. You've always gotten it done like no one else can. But you've compromised yourself and us, and this time I can't look the other way. I can't ignore the Council again." The Council. They considered him a risk, had for quite a while since he'd spared Romanoff, but what Loki had forced him to do had cemented their opinion that he was too dangerous to be out in the field. He knew Fury had gone to bat for him, but it wasn't enough. Even Fury had to follow orders.

Clint closed his eyes again, holding his body very taut to avoid shaking, holding in his breath and in his rage and grief. He really didn't want to hear what he knew was coming. Not from Fury. Not from someone who'd trained him to be the man he was. A spy. A killer. _A_ _murderer._

Not a hero.

Fury's face was completely impassive. Goddamn stoic. "I'm sorry. You're out for now, maybe even for good. Get your ass back to the infirmary and take care of yourself."

And with that, Fury was gone.

Clint sat alone in utter silence with only the monotonous and melancholic hum of the helicarrier around him. It seemed like he wavered, battered by pain and emotion and memory, for a long time, because when Natasha came back he was finally numb. She eyed him in concern, but she wisely didn't question him as to his conversation with Fury. "Let's get you back. You need to rest."

They were moving again, back through the command center, back in the elevator, back along the corridors. It wasn't so bad this time. The paranoia had eased. The pain was lessened. He'd been brought so low that there really wasn't anywhere to go. _Nowhere but up_.

He wasn't paying attention when Natasha pushed him back into the infirmary. He didn't notice when she and a pair of nurses helped him back into his hospital bed and settled him. He wasn't listening as one of the doctors came in and checked his vitals and talked to him about his prognosis. He didn't care about physical therapy, about taking it easy and not rushing things, about easing himself back into movement. His anger turned and twisted and _burned_ until he was harder for it. Until he was too furious to be beaten.

Natasha laid her hand atop his and gave him an encouraging squeeze. "Don't worry," she said. "We'll get him back."

_Not without me_.

He might have been down, but he sure as hell wasn't out.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Again, this chapter pushes up against a higher rating for violence and mentions of torture, so read at your own discretion. Please enjoy!

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**12**

Steve quickly realized his time was running out.

It was difficult to keep track, trapped as he was in this cell, but by his figuring a few days had passed since Vargas and his men had hauled him into the belly of the drug lord's estate. A couple of things cued him to the number of hours that had crawled by while he was their prisoner. First, ever since becoming Captain America, he'd had a better sense of things, and his internal clock was much more precise than was typical of anyone else. Second, and more telling, he'd started to notice the same men coming to stand guard in the front of the room. They were working in shifts, a select few (probably those Vargas trusted the most) charged with constantly keeping an eye on him. They came in pairs. One would always remain by the door at first, keeping his gun at the ready in the event Steve decided to fight them (which was fairly laughable, considering he could hardly move as tightly chained and injured as he was). The other would deal that shift's physical torments. These bastards weren't fancy with their torture; they simply beat him, typically focusing on already healing wounds to reopen lacerations and bruises and damage battered bones again. Some of them greatly enjoyed their task of keeping him bound and too wounded to fight, taunting and laughing and cruelly finding pleasure in his pain. Others simply did it, no doubt following Vargas' orders because he was paying them handsomely. Never was there a shred of compassion or even reservation. He was their captive, but more than that, he was their boss' asset. So they struck him and kicked him and battered him until he lost consciousness, and no matter the sadistic glee they found in their work, they always stopped at that point. They hurt him only enough to keep him docile. It was frustrating and maddening, and Steve had suffered through two days of this.

But today had been different thus far. The first pair of men arrived with a third man Steve hadn't seen before. They hadn't engaged in their usual brutality (this first pair of the day were the worst of the four six-hour shifts). Instead, aggravated and angry, they unbound Steve from where he'd spent the last two days chained to the floor, spread-eagle and very vulnerable. They'd quickly secured his manacles again, one of them working to rebind his arms, hands, and ankles while the other kept the muzzle of his gun trained on Steve's head. Then the third man came closer, an older fellow who regarded him with emotionless, analytical eyes. He looked Steve over, examining the worst of the bruising on his chest and abdomen, peering at the still healing gunshot wounds on his legs, taking stock of Steve's vitals. Obviously he was a doctor of some sort, probably sent by Vargas to get an idea of how his prize was faring. Steve ground his teeth together behind the gag and tried not to seem as disturbed by this encounter as he was feeling, first that he was being checked over like a damn piece of meat, and second that this could only mean one thing.

This was the strongest reason why he had come to suspect his time was running out. Vargas had found or was close to finding a buyer.

This only fueled his panic. Still, he'd been helpless as they'd hauled a goddamn fire hose into the room and _sprayed_ him, both of the soldiers laughing as the powerful stream of water knocked their prisoner from his knees to the floor. Steve had tried desperately to pull his legs to his chest to protect himself, but he could barely move given the force of the water slamming against him. The pain was overwhelming as his healing injuries were roughly agitated, the water blasting blood and grime from his bruised and broken skin. When it was over, he'd lay in a humongous puddle, coughing and sputtering and choking, absolutely drenched. The soldiers had laughed at his weakness, and the doctor had returned to jab a few needles into his bare forearm. He'd instinctively struggled, but he'd been too dizzy and sore to do much more than squirm. It was antibiotics, the man had proclaimed in halting English, and something for the pain. Silly and useless. These bastards really knew nothing about him.

Then they'd rebound him to the floor and taken their posts at the door. The dirty water pooled around him, draining slowly from the room through a small grate not far from his head. He'd watched it slip away, envious at such an easy escape, before losing consciousness.

And now he'd come to, only to find a different pair of brutes guarding him. Steve groaned and let his weighty head fall back to the uncomfortable concrete beneath him. These were the two who took far less pleasure in their work. Their mechanical, monotonous beating never came. He wasn't sure he was relieved. All of this… the doctor, the drugs, the bath, sparing him from further damage… It didn't bode well. He had to get out of there.

That was impossible, and he damn well knew it. His bonds were too strong to break, at least not without his full strength behind him. He hadn't stood in days, so he had no idea how well his legs had healed, if they were at all capable of bearing his weight, let alone walking or running. The bullet had torn straight through his left leg, so that limb was faring better. His right, he feared, still had the remains of the shot embedded within the flesh and muscle. He had a sinking suspicion he was healing around the offending pieces of metal, if the uncomfortable grinding sensation he felt every time he shifted his knee was any indication. And even if he could break free and he could run and fight, it seemed terribly unlikely he would be able to move fast enough to avoid being shot by the two goons guarding him. And then he only had to contend with the dozens and dozens of highly skilled, highly armed mercenaries that stood between him and freedom.

He fell asleep again, battling a mounting sense of despair.

When he awoke, it was to find the third pair of mercenaries standing beside the door to the room. He sagged wearily to the floor, fearing the passage of every empty moment, dreading the steady march of seconds and minutes and hours as it sucked away his hope. _Hope._ It was all in vain, and he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself. He wouldn't quit fighting. He'd never backed down before, and he wasn't about to surrender now. Time slipped away, pulling him unwillingly toward his fate, but he couldn't succumb. So he calmed the desperate pounding of his heart and relaxed his taut muscles and fought to find some semblance of calm amidst his whirling thoughts and riled emotions. He needed to wait, to conserve his energy and his strength, until the moment to escape presented itself. It _would_ present itself. He made himself believe that and allowed himself no fear or doubt.

It did present itself. Just not at all as he'd imagined.

Near the end of the shift of the third pair, Steve opened his eyes, arduously pulling himself from a haze of empty, dreamless sleep. He heard voices he didn't recognize. At first, he couldn't make himself care; the pain of being blasted with the fire hose and the continual depletion of his body's resources left him groggy and struggling to wake. But then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired through a silencer, and he jolted to awareness.

Vargas' wife stood at the entrance to the room, lowering the weapon she'd used to kill both of his guards. Steve's eyes widened as she looked upon him, his heart pounding when he saw the slow smile spread across her beautiful face and that awful hunger fill her eyes. He yanked as hard as he could on the chains binding his arms to the floor. The links rattled with the violent energy, and the metal fastenings securing them to the concrete bent, but nothing came free. She ambled closer, shutting the door behind her, leveling the gun at him. Steve scrambled, panicked, desperate to free himself before she murdered him. He yelled at her to back the hell away, to leave him alone, but it was all one pathetic, muffled cry. There was no way to defend himself.

Then she tossed to gun to the corner of the room. She sashayed her way toward him, unhurried despite what she'd just done. She stepped to his side and loomed over him, grinning still, but there was nothing charming or attractive about the way she was looking at him. "You know, _Capitán_, you and I have quite a bit in common." She looked down on him, obviously enjoying his fear, his discomfort. His helplessness. Steve was fairly certain she had far more in common with Vargas than she could ever have with him. "To my beloved husband, we are both commodities. Things that can be bought and sold. Things he can control and use for his own pleasures. Assets in his organization."

She dropped languidly to a crouch beside him. The expensive fabric of her dress flowed over the filthy floor; something so pretty and flowery seemed starkly out of place in this wet, bloody, filthy hell. Her dark hair was drawn loosely into a bun, tendrils of deep brown dangling down her face. She smelled sweet and wonderful. "Everything has a price in his eyes. He can buy whatever he fancies, have whatever he wants, and nothing can stop him." She smiled again, full lips parting to reveal two rows of perfectly white teeth, but this time the gesture seemed forced. "It isn't fair, is it, _Capitán_? That we should be two more of his possessions? That he should always get what he wants, not what he's earned? I think not. He shouldn't always get his way. And I think you probably agree with me, yes?"

He wasn't sure what she wanted, but he knew she was toying with him. Manipulating him to her own ends. That was blatantly obvious, so he only clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body despite the pain that radiated through him. Whatever game she was playing, he wouldn't be part of it.

She smiled seductively. "They say you are strong. Indestructible. Undefeatable. They say you single-handedly destroyed my husband's base and killed dozens of his men." At least that last part was true. Her eyes twinkled in euphoria. He wondered at how she could be this way, at what she might have been, at what Vargas might have done to her to twist her into this sick, vindictive, vengeful thing. "You are truly powerful, and my husband fears that. I have tried for years to teach him the sort of respect you won from him in only a moment's time. But it all means nothing. Here you are, trapped as I am." She trailed a slender hand, each elegant finger tipped in white nails, up his heaving chest. As bound as he was, he couldn't do anything but silently suffer in his revulsion. "I think we can help each other." Her fingers caressed his cheek, before brushing his dirty, mussed hair from his brow. "I'll let you go," she whispered huskily into his ear, pulling the gag from his mouth. "And you can teach my husband a lesson he will not forget."

From the bodice of her dress she produced the key to his chains. She slid the small item into the lock around his left wrist, and the cuff fell away with a soft clank. She pressed the key into his palm, her hand so small and soft and frail in his own, and then curled her fingers over his. He wasted not a second, not sure what the hell was happening but not about to let this opportunity disappear. He snatched the key and fumbled to sit up enough to jab it into the lock around his other wrist. Then he made short work of the manacles around his bare ankles. For the first time in days, he was free.

She watched appreciatively as he slid away from her as much as his newly freed and weakened limbs would allow, scrambling to put some distance between them. She liked that he was uncertain, untrusting. Afraid. "What do you want from me?" he hoarsely asked her, never breaking his threatening glare.

She grabbed his face between her hands roughly and kissed him. He was caught completely by surprise. His shocked grunt was trapped in her mouth as she forced his lips apart and deepened her unwanted contact. Steve was frozen, his mind utterly lost in a mixture of alarm and anger, as she poured twisted, perverted passion into the kiss, holding him immobile. It took his beleaguered mind a second to realize that he could easily overpower her, but before he could, she pulled away and smiled that tantalizing, dangerous smile again. But all the heat and desire was gone from her dead, cold eyes. "I want you to make my husband work for his money. Now go."

Then she stood and walked from the room, never looking back. She left the door open.

Steve sat, stupefied and shaking and wondering what sort of madness he'd unwillingly and unwittingly been made part of. But he wasn't about to lose this chance, no matter why he'd been given it. He fought to stand. The pain in his legs, especially his right, was excruciating. He didn't let it deter him, pouring all his strength into rising even as his damaged knees threatened to crumple. And when he was upright, the room spun nauseatingly for what seemed to be forever and he nearly toppled back to the unforgiving concrete. He refused to falter, swallowing the burn of acid in his throat and breathing heavily through his nose until the pain and vertigo receded enough to think. Then he staggered toward one of the dead men and haltingly crouched to grab his AK-47.

Outside the hall was dark. He stood still, his back pressed to the wall of his cell, looking down the shadowy corridor. He strained his ears and peered into the blackness; only the illumination shed from a few lonely light bulbs in the ceiling pierced the sable shroud. He didn't hear or see anyone. He made sure the gun was ready, and then he limped down the hallway on light footfalls, keeping himself to the shadows as much as possible. His battered body acutely protested every step, but he ignored the misery and moved on.

The first of Vargas' men he encountered were at the end of the hall. They stood lazily, obviously unconcerned that they would be troubled by intruders as they stood guard. He crept up behind them, slinging the gun over his shoulder. He took them down, snapping the neck of one and knocking the other's head into the unforgiving wall. Quickly Steve pulled their bodies back down the corridor a bit, hoping the shadows would hide what had happened long enough for him to get away. He grabbed a handgun, stuffed it in the waistband of his pants, and then jogged away as fast as he could.

It was quiet in the basement. Even still, there was a fair amount of activity. He glanced inside one of the storerooms to see nearly a dozen men working, loading boxes, crates, and cartons with guns from the numerous metal racks. It looked like they were packing, preparing to move the significant store of weapons to another location. He didn't think that could mean anything good. He watched a moment before slipping silently across the open doorway, his lamed right leg nearly failing him with the sudden, rigorous leap from shadow to shadow. He paused on the other side to catch his breath and calm his erratic pulse, holding the AK-47 he'd procured tightly to his chest. He slipped down another hallway, sneaking into an empty room when he heard the thunderous rattling of a cart and the rhythmic thudding of boots along with it. He waited until the men wheeling their load were gone before following them at a great distance. With the rattle echoing through the hallways, it was a little difficult to tell where they were headed, even with his enhanced hearing. But he managed to stick to their path, trying unsuccessfully to recall the way to the elevator through the tangled maze of corridors and grateful that he had an unknowing guide.

Thankfully, most of the men must have been busy with their work loading the guns and munitions because the halls were mostly empty. Eventually the cart and its escorts reached a familiar junction, one that Steve recognized from his journey down at gunpoint three days ago. He stood at the corner from where they had come, peering around the edge of the concrete wall to observe which way the men turned. Right, as he remembered. The cart banged against the walls as they clumsily pushed it too hard, and the yelling and cursing that followed was about as loud. At least the noise would cover his approach.

He sprinted down the hall once the men were gone and pressed his back to the right side, pausing again and listening. He heard low voices chatting idly in Spanish. He recognized one of them. It was Ortega, one of Vargas' lieutenants who'd "stopped by" a few times to oversee his treatment at the hands of his guards. The man was conceited and sloppy, the sort that never planned ahead because nothing could ever go wrong so why bother. Steve wished he knew more Spanish to understand what they were saying. The sound of the elevator was familiar and relieving enough, and there was another loud series of rattles, clanks, and bangs as the cart was probably maneuvered inside the lift. Then he glanced again and saw only Ortega standing outside the closed doors of the lift.

Steve leaned back and closed his eyes momentarily and tried the still the infernal shaking of his battered form. He needed to wait longer, until the men above got that oversized cart free and the elevator was on its way back down. More than this, though, he needed Ortega. Operating the lift required a numeric code and fingerprint identification. There was no way he could summon the elevator without him. Steve pressed himself tighter to the wall, dropping to a crouch to minimize the chances of being seen. He was out in the open; every bit of him screamed to move. But he waited another seemingly endless minute, forcing patience out of himself. Finally he sucked in a deep breath to gather his equanimity, slung the AK-47 and grabbed the handgun, and charged around the corner.

Ortega wasn't ready for him. His sudden assault was met with little resistance as he sprinted down the short distance and tackled the unsuspecting man. They went down hard, Steve knocking Ortega's head into the floor with just enough restraint as to daze him rather than seriously harm him. The man's black eyes were wide with alarm as the panting soldier thrust a gun in his face. "You're gonna get me out of here," hissed Steve, his eyes fiery with desperate ire.

Ortega sneered indignantly, revealing reddened teeth. "Don't think so, _Capitán_," he retorted.

Steve veritably snarled as he balled his other hand in Ortega's shirt and hauled the slighter man to his feet. He shoved him roughly against the wall. Ortega yelped as Steve slammed him to the unforgiving concrete, the muzzle of the handgun jabbed to the skin of his forehead. "You listen to me, you son of a bitch," Steve said lowly. "I'm getting out of here. Either you help me, or I kill you right here, right now."

"You won't escape."

"Then I'll die trying, and you'll die right along with me." He pressed the tip of the gun harder into Ortega's brow and clenched his finger on the trigger. "Take me up."

Ortega actually laughed. Despite all the insults and beatings he'd suffered at the hands of Vargas' men, Steve's fury pulsed through him at being so openly mocked. "Do you honestly think this will get you anywhere? You are far too important a prisoner. The big man's cash ticket. He won't allow you to leave, and he certainly won't kill you."

"God damn it!" Steve snapped in vicious spite. He tightened his fist in the man's rumpled button-down shirt and pushed him roughly towards the doors of the elevator. He pointed the weapon at the Ortega's back. _"Take me up now!"_

Ortega hesitated a moment more. The smug expression never wavered, but Steve saw fear in his eyes. Then he tapped a code into the panel beside the doors and pressed his thumb to the scanner. They waited, Steve looking continually over his shoulder and then back to Ortega. His legs throbbed miserably; he could barely stand to keep them beneath him, and the bruised ribs he had made breathing a chore. But he never showed outwardly any signs of weakness, not wanting to alert Ortega as to how weak and beaten he really was. His hand never shook as he held the gun.

It seemed to take forever for the elevator to come back down. Then the heavy doors opened. Thankfully the lift was empty. Steve shoved his hostage through, following on shaky legs. He ignored a bout of dizziness as adrenaline rushed over him and overexertion threatened. He didn't want to think that he couldn't do this, that he couldn't run or fight. But he knew the odds were decidedly, _depressingly_ against him. Ortega was right. They wouldn't let him escape. He was a lone captive in an estate full of armed mercenaries and violent henchmen.

Still, he didn't know how to admit defeat. It never had been in his nature.

"Up," he barked at Ortega, twisting the man's arm behind his back and keeping the gun held tightly to his head. As much as he didn't want to use anyone like this, he knew he had to if he wanted a chance to get away.

Partway through the agonizingly slow trip upward, alarm klaxons began to wail. Red lights flashed along the floor and ceiling of the elevator. Steve's pulse sped with terror as he looked around wildly. He felt more than saw Ortega's pleased, toothy grin. "They know, _amigo_," he announced smugly. "They'll be waiting for us."

Swallowing through a dry throat, Steve's mind raced. The alarms were deafening. There wasn't a second to plan as the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. As Ortega had promised, six or seven men were waiting, their guns trained on the occupants of the elevator. "Drop the gun! Hands in the air!" one of them barked. Steve had no choice but to use Ortega as a shield, praying these bastards held some semblance of compassion for their comrade enough to stay their hands. He pressed his own gun tighter to Ortega to emphasize a threat he didn't know if he could actually follow through with. "Drop it!" hollered the mercenary again. "There's nowhere to go!"

Unfortunately, that seemed to be the case. But it didn't stop him. He shoved Ortega violently toward the group of men, and the action caught them all by surprise. Ortega's body rammed into the group of them, and they went down in a tangle of limbs and a cacophony of pained grunts and alarmed curses. Steve took aim at one of the pipes overhead and yanked on the trigger, praying this rash act would help him. The bullet pierced the metal casing of the pipe, and water immediately sprayed them all. He took their second of shock to his advantage, barreling into those of the group who remained standing. His attack was met with little resistance, and he moved as fast as he could make himself, delivering lightning-quick blows to those within his reach, shooting at those outside melee range. Even as slowed as he was by his wounds, he was still much too fast for them. Guns fired, bullets slashing through the spray of water haphazardly and narrowing missing their target. He stumbled through and broke free and started to run.

The alarms were wailing even louder now. He heard desperate, enraged cries shouted into radios and some equally furious replies. He didn't stop, even as bullets shattered the tile around him. He thundered into the kitchen. A spray of gunfire greeted him, and Steve lost his balance as he tried to skid to a stop and his wet feet slid out from under him. He hit the floor with a cry on his side, his injured leg consumed by fiery agony arcing up and down the battered limb. He tumbled gracelessly into a metal counter. It was just as well that he collided with the now bent and tipped structure as the stainless steel provided at least some protection from the bullets careening toward him.

But he couldn't stay for more than a moment if he didn't want to get trapped.

Steve wiped the water from his face and winced as bullets peppered the countertop behind him. The steel bent and warped and twisted from the impact of the shots. Desperate, he peered over the top of his makeshift cover and returned fire, his eyes darting quickly among the black-clad bodies streaming into the kitchen. A few went down, but most of his rushed shots struck nothing. He turned back and gasped in horror as the men from the hallway were entering from behind him, guns blazing. Steve covered his head, tiles exploding all around him and needling him with razor-sharp ceramic shards. It was too late. They had him surrounded and cornered.

Panic fueled him. He tossed the empty handgun and grabbed the AK-47, laying down a thick, hopefully suppressing spray of fire behind him. Then he grabbed the counter, his arms shaking and straining as he lifted and pushed as hard and fast as he could. The stainless steel bent with an awful clamor as he rammed it forward and it caught on other shelves and counters, but it served as armor adequately enough. The soldiers fell back as he powerfully pushed forward, drawing all the strength he could from his aching muscles. He got far enough to reach the side door, and he dropped his ad hoc shield and bolted as fast as he could from the kitchen.

He didn't know where the hell he was. He just ran through what looked like a service corridor, past a pantry of some sort. A slew of chefs and cooks watched, surprised and horrified, as he stumbled through them. There were screams behind him, and he spared a moment for guilt and horror. The corridor exited into some sort of loading bay. He could hardly believe his good fortune as he vaulted over a railing and landed heavily on the floor some eight or nine feet below him. His right leg utterly refused to bear the impact, collapsing beneath him with a shot of pain strong enough to wrest a cry from his lips. Blood poured into his pant leg from the reopened wound. He grasped the throbbing limb, fighting to overcome the agony, feeling wet heat squish between his clutching fingers. There was more shouting and a rampage of boots striking the ground.

Steve blinked tears from his eyes and hauled his exhausted body upward. He stumbled, dragging his leg until he could bear putting his weight on it again. The warm, fresh air (the first he'd smelled in _days_) beckoned from the wide open entrance to the loading bay, and he ran as best he could, bringing his gun upward and preparing to fight for his life.

The alarms were shrilly screaming outside as well, shattering the peaceful night. A slew of mercenaries greeted him. He didn't hesitate a second, charging into those closest. A swift kick brought down the first, the black-haired man gasping uselessly as Steve's foot shattered his chest. Steve rounded, smacking his gun into the face of another and sending him sprawling, before unloading more of the magazine. When it was empty, he flung the gun at the nearest man, dropping him heavily to the ground. He skittered away as a rain of gunfire descended. These soldiers were a little more wary of shooting at him; most of the bullets went wide. Obviously Vargas was concerned about seriously wounding or even killing him, which was fine with Steve. Wide shots aimed at less vital areas were easier to avoid, and the mercenaries in front of him were apprehensive about engaging him in hand-to-hand combat. He fought mindlessly, sinking into the familiar comfort of letting his well-trained body dance of its own accord. He blocked blows, stepping agilely, and returned with punches and strikes of his own. He didn't hold back his strength. But he was rapidly tiring, and there were _so many _soldiers coming at him. He couldn't fight much longer.

He needed an escape route. _Now._

Once he found it, he didn't think twice. The snipers and soldiers in the watch tower to his left were getting frantic, shooting more quickly and with much better, deadlier aim. Steve rolled, avoiding a round of fire, and scrambled away, praying with every bit of his panicked spirit that his legs not fail him. To the southern side of the compound he saw a gate; it was heavily fortified and would be damn near impossible to force open, but beside it there was a little guardhouse. The roof was significantly lower than the height of the perimeter wall. And there was a tree beside that. He could make the jump. He knew he could.

"Captain America!"

It was Vargas. He stood near the loading dock from which Steve had escaped, eyeing his fleeing prisoner with a calm face that belied the rage burning in his eyes. He wore a silken robe covering pajamas, and his black hair was the slightest bit mussed. If it wasn't for the fact that his very life hung in the balance, Steve might have felt extremely satisfied for dragging the vindictive bastard out of bed.

"Captain, there's no point in trying. Surrender now and spare yourself more punishment. Don't make me have to come after you," Vargas warned. The soldiers stood, their guns trained on Steve, waiting for the order to resume firing. Steve glanced between his only way out and his tormentor. Then he made his decision. It was the only choice.

He ran. As fast and as powerfully as he could. Even as he heard guns snap and crack as they fired, as he heard bullets whizzing through the air around him and punishing the earth behind his feet. He could beat them. He forced every bit of length from every stride, his heart and his lungs straining wildly to feed his muscles with oxygen. He saw a low branch on the tree, just barely above his head, and leapt. His hands curled around the thick, coarseness of bark, and he swung forward, using his momentum to propel himself upward. He hit the roof of the guardhouse with a thud and nimbly engulfed the length of the house in two gigantic steps. The pain from his leg was excruciating, but he didn't stumble. Not when he was this close. Not when he could see and hear and _taste_ freedom.

He jumped as high as he could and grabbed the top of the wall.

Heat and pain jolted through him, racing from the tips of his burning fingers through his palms and arms and chest and suddenly everything stopped and he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't see or hear or think or feel anything. Then the awful sensation rushed over him. His skin was scorching. His arteries and veins were expanding in his body. His bones were vibrating. He needed to let go. He couldn't let go. He couldn't let go!

And then he did.

He was falling, tumbling, seizing. The ground rushed up to meet him, and blackness swallowed him whole.

There was nothing.

And then someone was kissing him again. This time the lips weren't so soft or so sweet but they were about as insistent. His mouth and throat and lungs were filling with air, the forced breath painfully moving tissues and muscles that were content to die. Something was pounding on his chest. Awareness was so sporadic and blurred that at first the pounding seemed random. But the echo of chaotic sound slammed into his skull and grew regular and rhythmic, thumping and thumping and _thumping_, like his heart was being beaten. It was, and abruptly he came back to life.

Steve gasped and choked on air trapped in his throat. His eyes shot open, filled with hot, stinging tears and sweat, but he couldn't see. Agony rushed over him like lightning, jolting every nerve _everywhere_ with white, scalding heat. He gagged, the taste of blood and bile and saliva flooding his mouth, and he was rolled to his side as he coughed and heaved.

Eventually the torture was over and he lay back against the dirt and grass. His senses returned to him as splinters that hardly made any sense. His brain was utterly incapable of piecing them together. He heard voices, radios spewing static, distant sounds of animals and leaves rustling. He felt hot and cold at once, and he couldn't stop shivering. A shadow loomed over him, bathed in light that was too, too bright. He recognized the face from somewhere.

The doctor.

"He's alive."

Despair crushed his tenuous grip on consciousness, and he went back to sleep.

When he lazily opened his eyes again, he saw gray ceilings and lonely light bulbs. He slipped in and out of awareness. He could feel himself being moved. Dragged along the ground by his arms. The grains of dirt on the floor seemed to grind into his naked torso. More voices, some laughing, tinged with triumphant glee. The foulness coating the thick lump of his tongue in mouth was unbearable. He wanted to say something, to struggle against whatever was happening to him, but nothing worked right. He couldn't muster the strength to coordinate muscles and bones and brain. He couldn't manage anything. Random thoughts. Random sights and sounds and sensations.

"Wake up, Captain." Someone was patting his face. The shock faded. The all-consuming fog dissipated. He struggled to open eyes that had apparently slipped shut again. It took an eternity for the blurry figures above him to settle into one image.

Vargas smiled wanly. "I warned you," he said coolly.

Steve groaned. He could barely move, intense pain torturing every speck of him, from the hair follicles in his skin to the clenched misery in his gut to the hammering against skull. His eyelids fluttered. He felt his arms and legs being adjusted, but it was a passing sensation and he was too weak and disjointed to struggle. The cool press of sleek metal came back around his wrists. He wanted to cry, but his eyes were too dry.

"That was very foolish. Believe me, I'm not pleased at the damage you've done to yourself," Vargas said, standing over him with disapproval teeming in his gaze.

Steve's head lolled uselessly against the cool, smooth floor. The tile seemed to leech the unbelievable heat from his cheek. Tile, not concrete. He realized that he wasn't back in the basement. That brought a slew of coherent thought bursting into his brain. Vargas' wife. Running and fighting. Guns spitting bullets. The wall. _The wall_.

He'd been electrocuted.

"… No," he moaned, fighting to raise hands that were too weak and too heavy. His muscles contracted and relaxed uncoordinatedly with random spasms that made movement impossible. He wanted to push away the black shadows surrounding him, but he couldn't. The soldiers laughed like demons as they bound his trembling hands together anew. They didn't even bother to secure them behind his back. He was done, and everyone knew it. "No, don't…"

"Don't what, Captain?" An aggravated sigh fled the drug lord. "I'm not sure what I have to do to get this message through your thick skull. You are mine, and I will sell you. Fighting me is pointless."

Steve choked on his breath, a sob crawling in his throat and aching to be released. The pain was getting much worse. Everything _hurt_. He really had damaged himself. He was being lifted, his body as useless as a rag doll at supporting his own weight. He couldn't fight. Not anymore. He couldn't focus for more than moment, the hazy shadows drifting in and out of alignment in front of him. And when he did, he saw Vargas' wrathful eyes. "I can't punish you now the way I normally would. No, not with my customers coming tomorrow evening. I need you in better shape than this. I need you to heal." The words failed to make much sense to Steve. _Nothing_ made much sense. He blinked and blinked and tried to think. And then he recognized where he was.

No, not the basement. In the hallway behind the kitchen.

His heart stopped.

"There are other ways to get through to you. I have my sources, and they tell me you're not too fond of the cold."

Suddenly the will to fight rushed back over him, hot and desperate and demanding, and he tried to press his heels into the slick, wet floor. He tried to push them away. But they only laughed at his feeble, jerky attempts to free himself as they hauled him toward the walk-in freezer.

One of the men pulled the heavy door open. Lights flooded on inside, bright and awful, revealing a sleek gray cell. Whatever shelves that had been inside to store food had been removed, leaving a space barely big enough for someone to lie down. Steve's heart thundered in absolute terror, his eyes wide and his breath coming in short, rapid gasps that bordered on hyperventilation. "No! You can't do this to me! No!"

Vargas was disgustingly pleased with himself at his prisoner's reaction. "Oh, I can and will. You can spend the rest of your stay in your new cage."

Steve screamed, fighting with renewed vigor, but the group of men around him easily manhandled his bound form toward the open door. Tears filled his eyes, but he was helpless. God damn helpless. He couldn't stop it. Just like he hadn't been able to stop Schmidt's plane from crashing into the ice. Just like he hadn't been able to the stop the water from filling the shattered cockpit. Just like he hadn't been able to stop it from slowly _drowning_ him. The cold air licked at him, grabbing at his sweaty, filthy skin and drawing him inside the icy hell.

"No! No! Please don't do this to me! No!"

"Good night, Captain."

He was shoved inside, and the door slammed shut behind him. The light disappeared instantly. Steve reeled in the absolute pitch, striking the smooth floor on his knees. The pain was nothing now. He scrambled around, and the sound of the thick, unbreakable door locking securely filled him with utter mortification. "No," he cried, pounding on the impenetrable metal. "Please, no! Don't leave me here! _Don't leave me!_"

The ice invaded, and he shivered and screamed until he was hoarse, but he was so alone, lost in the dark. The cold stole his breath and his strength and his sanity, and he broke.

* * *

_capitán - _captain

_amigo – _friend_  
_


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**13**

They told him to take it easy, to rest and recover slowly.

No chance in hell.

Clint spent the next twelve hours working to restore movement in his leg. The first "steps" were the most difficult. He'd lain prone for many long minutes, sweating feverishly as he carefully tested and measured his range of motion. The doctor had mentioned there could potentially be nerve damage along his leg, but if there was, it certainly didn't feel like it. His first attempts to move were completely unfruitful, only rewarding him with agony that left him panting and perspiring and blinking tears from his eyes as he collapsed limply back into his bed. Frustration had consumed him, and despair followed in its wake, because the pain seemed prohibitive and his leg was every bit as damaged as he'd been told. But he'd thought of Steve and Barney and that kid with the red shoes, and accepting defeat was not an option. So he'd tried again, fighting mightily to do something as simple as slightly bend his leg at the knee. It was excruciating, but after many long minutes and a few more failed attempts, he'd managed it.

Hours later, hours spent trying to flex his damaged, torn muscle and stiff joint, he'd gotten to the point where he could (mostly) bend his knee. It wasn't easy in the least bit, and even after so much work it still hurt like hell, but he was damn proud of himself for getting this far. But the next part, the actual _steps_, would prove much harder.

He didn't pause to wonder if he could hurt himself further. According to Natasha, he'd nearly died in surgery. He certainly felt the vestiges of how very dangerously ill he'd been, his other limbs weak and trembling constantly as he worked. A cough was perpetually trapped in his throat, making breathing a trying venture. Everything pulsed with a dull miserable ache that seemed deeply set into his very flesh and blood and bones. His head was stuffy and he was extremely lethargic from exhaustion and pain medication, but he wouldn't – couldn't – let these things deter him. The image of Steve bound to that chair and bleeding tormented him, and he surrendered himself to his guilt and shame and rage. He let these things motivate him, because he wanted to give up before he even tackled the worst of it.

It took him more than a couple of minutes to summon forth the energy and courage to maneuver his lower body to the edge of his hospital bed. It was the middle of the night, so there was no one around really to stop him or chastise him for this monumentally stupid thing he was about to attempt. The few doctors and nurses on duty were quietly engaged in conversation and work, and he could see them plainly through the window in the door of his room, so he'd have a chance to stop before he got caught. He swung his feet gingerly to the floor, curling his toes in his socks before letting them touch the cool tiles. Just sitting upright made the infirmary spin and his stomach rebel, and he nearly puked all over himself as he wavered. He swallowed it all back down, however, and made himself stand.

He was back on the bed before he even put more than a tiny fraction of his weight on his leg.

Panting with exertion, he swore softly and shook his head and tried again. This time he had a more realistic expectation of how difficult it would be and how much it would hurt, so he braced himself more on his good leg and put absolutely no stress on the bad one. He was standing. Standing and shaking because he was so dizzy and weak and fatigued. He stayed on his feet for only a moment before sitting again, but his next try he lasted longer. And longer. Pretty soon, if he completely ignored the vertigo and pain, he could stand without holding onto his hospital bed for dear life.

It was a small victory. _One thing at a time,_ he kept telling himself, chanting it like a mantra, concentrating on that because his body seemed hell-bent on distracting him with its ailments. Gingerly he began to put weight on his hurt leg. He tried not to look at it, as the limb felt totally alien to him, but he did anyway and saw hints of red spotting the bandages and pads beneath the thin fabric of his hospital gown. And he quickly realized walking was nearly out of the question as wounded as he was. _Limping_ was about as infeasible. He tried to plod across the room, leaning heavily on his IV stand, but it proved too strenuous and torturous. He upped his morphine and shuffled the few small steps back to his bed. He lay back down. His last thought before he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep was that he needed to talk to Tony Stark first thing in the morning.

When he awoke five hours later, it was to a nurse changing the dressings on his gunshot wound and adjusting his medications. "How are you feeling, Agent Barton? You look pale," she commented worriedly. He brushed off her concerns and asked her to call Stark for him. She agreed, put off by his dismissive behavior. Clint ate as much of the breakfast that was brought to him as his roiling stomach could tolerate. It was all tasteless and mushy, the sort of simple diet prescribed to people recovering from serious illness. He was famished and nauseous at once.

By the time he was finished, Stark was there. He was dressed in expensive jeans, a black button-down shirt, and a gray jacket. He was meticulously well-groomed as always and seemed remarkably chipper given how early in the morning it was. Stark didn't strike Clint as a morning person. "What do you want, feathers? You look white. Like really white. What the hell have you been up to?"

Clint could really do without Stark's bullshit, but he knew there was no way he could do this without the genius' aid. So he swallowed his irritation. "I need your help," he said, holding Tony's gaze firmly. "I need to get back in the game."

Stark didn't look overly surprised by the request. "Fury said you were out," he said.

"I don't care, and since when do you give a damn about what Fury says?"

Tony shrugged. "Just wondering when you got so crappy at following orders. Not listening is usually my forte. And I don't know if I should help you. Word is you screwed the pooch bad on this one."

Clint held himself hard and taut to avoid any emotion seeping into his face. "I _need_ to get back in," he said again, slowly and evenly and forcefully. "I gotta make this right."

"Gotta be a hero, huh?"

"No," he said. "I have to be his friend."

Tony's defensive expression slid slowly from his face. He was a difficult man to read sometimes; for all of his narcissism and arrogance and charisma, he was something of a loner. He had his demons, just like they all did. Clint had read his file, knew about Afghanistan, about how much Tony had suffered and how very poorly he handled other people. The partying and stylish spending and extravagance and devil-may-care attitude were just shields. Maybe underneath it all, he was a good man. And a teammate. Steve had maybe brought out the best in Tony back in Manhattan.

"How bad is your leg?" Tony asked, and just like that, Clint knew he would help him.

Quickly Stark took a look at the injury. Clint surprised himself with his level of detachment as the other man pulled the bandages away and the examined his thigh. It was the first time he'd seen the wound since the quinjet had crashed in the jungle. Natasha was right; he had a helluva scar. It was nearly six inches long, running down the length of his outer right thigh from just below his hip halfway to his knee. A fair chunk of skin and muscle were just _gone_, cut away to prevent the gangrene from consuming the rest of his leg. The infection had spread down to his knee, he'd been told, but they'd been able to preserve more muscle closer to the joint. His quadriceps was the most compromised. The wound had been stitched, the angry tear pulled closed by the neat bindings, and the burn looked to be improving. But the wound was still awful and still far from healed.

Tony's eyes were clouded in thought. He nodded to himself, gazing up and down Clint's leg. "Give me a few hours. I'll be back with something."

Stark was true to his word. Three hours later he returned carrying a case. Clint snapped from a light doze at the other man's unannounced entrance. "I'm a miracle worker. Really. And you owe me," Stark said as he came closer, unsnapping the lid of the case and laying it on Clint's bed.

Clint was a little muddled from sleep. "Is Romanoff back yet? What time is it?"

Tony was setting his things on the end of the hospital bed. "No and I don't know. After lunch time, I think. Come on. You're going to love this." He held up a device, and Clint's brow furrowed in confusion and a bit of dread. It was about a foot long, composed of five black rings that had a circumference of maybe twenty inches. The rings themselves were joined by more of the same thin, black material at four or five points around each circle, creating what looked like the skeleton of a tube. It flexed as Tony handed it to him, flexed in a way that was too malleable and forgiving to be metal but too sturdy to be rubber.

"What the hell is this?" he murmured, bending the flimsy looking thing in his hands.

"That, my friend, is what I use to help coordinate the joint movement in Iron Man. It's called starkanium." Tony smiled cheekily, and Clint fought not to roll his eyes. "Actually, it's not called anything that awesome. It's an alloy of metal and rubber, designed to be incredibly durable while remaining incredibly flexible. Its tensile strength is off the charts. Pretty cool stuff, and it should provide you some significant support while aiding in walking and running. Plus, and this is the best part, this is going to jack into your damaged muscle group and help coordinate the electrical pulses along the nerves to fire in sync, so you should have greater control with fewer muscle fibers. Send your thanks to Banner."

Clint was too tired and too highly-dosed on pain medication to follow any of that. It didn't matter, in any case. He was prepared to do anything to get up out of that bed and help save Rogers. Stark helped him sit and then went about fitting his new invention around Clint's damaged leg. Every touch of either Stark's fingers or the device itself to his tender, battered skin was like fire, and he couldn't restrain a hoarse groan or two from escaping his lips. "Sure you want to do this? It's probably going to hurt like a son of a bitch."

Clint curled his hands into the mattress of his bed hard enough that his fists shook. "Yes."

The rings were _incredibly_ tight around his thigh. He occasionally felt little pricks on the surface of his skin, like little needles jabbing down, but mostly his leg became just a blob of misery unfortunately attached to him. The pain was nearly overwhelming as Stark took his time adjusting and situating the thing. Clint labored simply to breathe and not pass out. Finally the billionaire seemed pleased with himself, pursing his lips and giving a little shrug. "Alright. Firing this baby up."

Suddenly his leg was tingling _and_ throbbing, and he cried out, leaning into Tony subconsciously. Stark's eyes, uncharacteristically filled with worry, watched him closely. "You gonna buck up?"

"Yeah," Clint ground out.

"Good. Stand up."

With Tony's hands under his arms, his did. At first, he could barely manage to get himself upright, even with Stark's help. His leg seemed jerky and unresponsive to the simplest of commands from his brain. But he dared to put his weight on it. And he could. Right away, his leg withstood the stress of standing. And his first step, although unsteady, was successful. His second he took without Stark's guiding hands. And his third felt normal enough. It did hurt terribly, but he was up and walking. Or limping, but at least he was moving of his own strength and volition.

Tony cocked his head. "Sometimes I amaze even myself."

Clint turned around to look at him, genuine appreciation rushing over his exhilarated form. He managed a small, grateful grin. "Thanks."

"It's not a permanent solution, you know. And I don't know what kind of damage it could do long term."

Clint tested his mobility a bit more, trying to determine how much he could stand before the pain became unbearable. His limits became farer and farer with each moment. "Don't care," he said.

"Stupid, but noble. Rogers rubbed off on you in all the wrong ways."

Clint grunted at that, sitting on the bed again and gathering his composure. He wiped the fresh sweat from his brow and then carefully peeled back the medical tape securing the IV port to his elbow before pulling the needle free. He pressed the sheet over the freshly bleeding hole before glancing around helplessly. "I need to find my clothes."

Stark nodded and pulled a pile from his case. "Figured you were about my size." He tossed a pair of jeans and an old, ratty ACDC shirt at him. A pair of boots followed. "I want that shirt back, by the way. It's vintage. Now I'm going to go shamelessly flirt with the nurses out front."

Clint watched as he ambled out of his room toward the nurses' station and proceeded to do exactly what he'd said. Alone for a moment, the archer swallowed through a sore throat and wondered what the hell he was doing. But he didn't spend more than that second contemplating this course, not wanting to waste the distraction Tony was providing. He made himself stand again. It was getting easier all the time. This crazy brace of Tony's really was working. He pulled off the hospital gown as quickly as he could manage and slipped on the jeans. They were a little snug, particularly around his bandaged leg. Then he pulled on the shirt and stuffed his feet into the boots.

He strolled over to the cart of supplies on silent feet, carrying Tony's now empty case. He raided it for bandages, sterile pads and gauze and whatever else he could find. And he hesitated only a moment before plundering the supply cabinet outside his room, breaking the lock easily and surreptitiously. He snatched up numerous syringes full of morphine, as well as a vial of methamphetamine and a couple more vials of antibiotics. The moral haziness of what he was doing lingered in the back of his mind, but he ignored the niggling voice of dissent and stashed the drugs. He was going to need them.

Then he was strolling down the hallway with surprising grace, given how badly his leg was hurting. He reached the nurses' station in the front of the infirmary, where Tony was murmuring seductively into the ear of the pretty young girl as he helped her with her computer. "Ah, Agent Barton!" Tony said loudly. "Ready? Let's go!"

She looked shocked. "Agent Barton," she stammered, "you haven't been cleared to leave!"

"I'm clearing myself," Clint said evenly, striding tall and strong to the doors. He stopped at the intake computer, finding his name on the list on the touch screen. He signed himself out with the stylus before jabbing his thumb into the scanner beside the computer. The doors to the infirmary swished open, and he walked out.

"Sorry, sweetheart. You know how it is. Places to go. People to see. Asses to kick. Will you miss me? You'll miss me." Then Stark followed him out the door.

They walked as briskly as Clint could stand down the corridor toward the lift. Considering he was in a wheelchair less than twenty-four hours ago, this was downright incredible. "Banner's got us set up a few decks down," Stark said seriously. "Come on."

* * *

By the time they reached the lab Bruce had transformed into an operations center, Black Widow had returned from her mission. If either of the two Avengers were surprised to see Tony stroll in with Clint in tow, it wasn't obvious. "How's your leg?" Bruce asked as they approached.

"Fine," Clint brusquely responded like he'd never been hurt, never been removed from the team at all. He turned to Natasha, who was wearing a yellow sundress. "What did you find out?"

Natasha was a master at controlling and manipulating emotions, but he knew right away that she was extremely upset. "We need to hurry. Cap tried to escape last night. The word around the estate is that he got knocked out by some sort of electric fence embedded in the perimeter wall."

"Knocked out?" Tony repeated.

She darted icy eyes at Stark. "Electrocuted."

Stark's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Well, is he okay? Jesus."

"I don't know anything more than he's alive." She folded her long, pale arms across her breasts. Every bit of her exuded a wrathful aura that even Clint feared at times. She turned murderous eyes to the various diagrams and schematics displayed on the touchscreens before them. "Vargas locked him in one of his walk-in freezers."

Silence. Their horror was palpable. They all had read Steve's file. They all knew what that meant. Clint knew beyond a doubt that Vargas had known it, too. He closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists at his side, trying with all his might to quell his rage. He didn't care what Fury had said, what the goddamn mission objectives were. He was going to kill Vargas. As slowly and painfully as he could. Evil of that extent couldn't be left alive. Evil like that _demanded_ to be eradicated.

"God damn it," Stark hissed. He raged a moment, spitting curses and slamming a hand into the conference table.

"For how long?" Banner demanded. Clint couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive at the look in the doctor's normally unfazed eyes.

"Since last night," Natasha answered. "More than twelve hours."

Tony was riled. He started to pace fruitlessly, suddenly plagued with restless energy. "We need to get him out of there. Now. Like yesterday. _Now._"

"I know," Romanoff responded, her tense voice full of forced calm. Every minute they spent flustered and frustrated and spinning their wheels uselessly was one more minute Steve had to suffer, reliving what was probably his worst nightmare. "Unfortunately, our options for a rescue are even fewer than before. I've got his exact location mapped out. But there's no way to get to him. The freezer is pretty much impenetrable. The air ducts around it are far too small for me to infiltrate. There's only the one entrance, and it's heavily guarded. Vargas has nearly a dozen men working in shifts both in front of the freezer door and patrolling the surrounding hallways and kitchen. It's impossible."

"We can't leave him there," Tony said sharply. "I'll tear the whole goddamn place down." If the situation wasn't so serious, Clint might have been surprised by the level of concern Stark was showing for a man with whom he'd previously butted heads. But he was just voicing what they were all feeling.

"We will if we have to," Natasha promised, "but we stand a better chance of getting Rogers out of there alive if we play the situation to our advantage." She tapped a few controls on the massive touch screen before them. "Vargas is throwing a party tonight. He spared no expense. Finest food and entertainment, trying to stick it all out there like some top-notch player. The buyers are coming, and then he's going to auction Rogers off." They all looked sufficiently disgusted and mortified. "This is what Carlos Ortega tells me. He's one of Vargas' lieutenants."

"And he knows this for certain?" Clint asked. He remembered reading a dossier on Ortega. The man had been northward, in Mexico, when he and Steve had first been dispatched to track the Chitauri weapons. If the look on Natasha's face and the near-transparency of her dress was any indication, she had him at her mercy.

Romanoff nodded. "I think Stark's idea yesterday was actually a good one."

Tony looked a little surprised. Compliments from Black Widow were a rarity. "I'm flattered. Which one? I have lots, in case you haven't noticed, and they are _all_ brilliant."

"Buying him," Clint said softly, suddenly understanding where Natasha was going. "We can pose as buyers. You've got the deep pockets, Stark, but you're too recognizable. We can rig it so it looks like the money belongs to someone else."

Tony blanched a little. He was rich, filthy rich, but did he really have that kind of cash? "Um, how much is it now?"

Natasha glanced at him. "Two hundred fifty million just to walk in the door."

"But you never have to pay it," Clint said quickly, watching the hesitation flit across Stark's face. "You said you had that much."

Tony winced. "I do, but it'll take time to get it together."

"Fake it. You only need to get us inside."

"Us? Who is going on this little charade?"

The idea came to him, the makings of a plan. He looked to Bruce. "Someone who stands to benefit," he said softly. Tony followed his gaze, and then his expression softened into one of dawning realization.

It took Banner a moment longer to notice their stares. Then his eyes widened, and he vehemently shook his head. "Oh. No. No way."

"Sorry, doc. The hawk's right," Stark said. "Anything else would seem too out of the blue."

"You can't possibly be serious! I can't pull off a stunt like that. I'm not trained for this sort of thing. And he'll know! It's not like the 'other guy' is all that subtle. Or unknown. For crying out loud, the Hulk's been all over the news as much as Captain America or Iron Man," Bruce said in exasperation.

"That's all the more reason he'll buy into it," Tony insisted. Clint was infinitely glad that Stark had taken up this cause. He wasn't even sure how wise an idea this was, but with Tony behind him, he felt more confident. He saw the data Natasha had brought up on the screen. The list of outfits, factions, organizations, and individuals interested in purchasing Captain America was more than a dozen long. He glanced through a few names. These were some of the worst and most dangerous terrorists, scientists, and criminals the world had to offer. If any one of these monsters got a hold of the super soldier serum, the results could be catastrophic.

Banner looked at them like they had sprouted additional heads. "How do you even know he'll let me in?" he said, shaking his head, stammering out another excuse. "Is he really going to want _that kind_ of potential disaster in his home?"

"This whole thing is going down in less than six hours. I don't think we have time to manufacture another cover story, and yours is conveniently appropriate. We'll stand a much better chance of getting Steve out of there if we go in like this. There's just no other way to get to him, and brute force will probably guarantee Vargas killing him. We need Vargas to bring him out." Natasha shook her head. "You go in there and try to buy him. If you win the auction, we'll move in after you make the exchange. If you don't, we'll move in before whoever does win leaves the premises with the Cap."

Bruce folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. "The plan reeks of really bad idea," he muttered disdainfully. Clint had to agree it wasn't the best. There were too many unknowns and too many assumptions. He didn't doubt that Banner and Stark could develop some fake method of making it seem as though they had hundreds of millions of dollars at their disposal. The hard part would be convincing Vargas to even let them in the estate. Bruce Banner was an Avenger, and the world knew that. So his sudden betrayal of his team captain might seem fairly implausible.

But, then again, they had only fought together in one battle less than a month ago. And it wasn't like anyone knew them personally. Who was to say Banner was still affiliated with their team? Who was to say he hadn't been coerced to join the fight in Manhattan in the first place? Who was to say he wasn't petty and driven by personal pain and rage enough to want to try to make his worst mistake right somehow? Hell, the Chitauri incident had brought the very living, breathing symbol of everything Bruce had _failed to do_ right before his very eyes. That was the sort of thing that breathed life into desperation and cruelty and vengeance. Bruce had the scientific credentials and history to make his desire to purchase Steve very reasonable. "Vargas doesn't know a damn thing about you," Stark said. He had obviously been considering the very same things as Clint. "Other than the giant green rage monster thing. And maybe that your work on the serum birthed the beast, but that only plays to your evil cred. If this list of wackos and psychos really shows up to this dinner party from hell, he'll have his hands full keeping an eye on everyone. You know what reeks of really bad idea? Vargas' stupid-ass plan to auction off Captain America in front of an audience of megalomaniacal super villains. As long as you can keep a lid on Mr. Hyde until we need him, he won't think twice about you."

Stark could make anything sound smart. Clint had gone into more dangerous situations knowing less and requiring more complicated assumptions to hold up. Never in those cases had the life of another person hung so directly in the balance, though.

"I don't see another option. There's no time. Vargas is playing a dangerous game, and he knows it. Let's make sure it backfires," Romanoff said.

"Fine," Bruce said tensely. "I'll go in."

"I'm coming with you."

They looked at Clint, surprised at his sudden, adamant declaration. Then they glanced at each other. "That sounds like a fantastic way of making a bad idea worse," Bruce said shortly.

"They'll recognize you," Natasha declared.

"No," Clint responded, folding his arms obstinately over his chest and standing as tall as he could manage with his throbbing leg. "Nobody saw me destroy the base. Vargas didn't know me when they took Steve."

"You _were_ covered in crap at the time," Tony offered. "Hell, _I_ didn't even recognize you." Natasha shot him a withering look, to which he threw up his hands and said, "What? It's true. He looked like shit. If he goes in dressed like a rich man, they probably won't make the connection. Especially since they think he's dead."

Natasha looked back at him, her expression closed and unreadable. Clint did his best to seem sure of himself, but he knew what she was thinking. He could jeopardize the whole mission if anyone recognized him. Surely some of the soldiers had seen him; he couldn't remember exactly how many men had captured them, but it was likely one or two might remember his face under all the mud and grime and blood that had covered him. Was that a risk worth taking? Was he willing to endanger the success of rescuing Steve by coming along? "I have to do this," he said evenly.

She respected him, had placed her own life in his capable hands many times in the past. He was smarter than most people gave him credit for, and he excelled as a spy and assassin as much as she did. He knew the dangers. She knew he did. So she didn't question his choice. At least, not aloud. "Alright, Barton goes in with Doctor Banner." Clint couldn't help but sag a little at her acquiescence, relieved and exhausted and his leg hurt so damn badly from trying to seem strong. But he forced his moment of weakness to be brief when Natasha's voice cut through the haze in his head and called for concentration. "Let's lay it out."

* * *

They proceeded to spend the next hour banging out a rescue plan. It was rough and based on far too many assumptions for any of their likings. They assumed that Bruce and Clint would be able to get inside Vargas' party based on a tablet computer Tony would design that would tap into his offshore accounts to demonstrate (attached to Bruce's name, of course) that the required good faith sum of money existed. They assumed that Vargas wouldn't find it alarming that an Avenger (or ex-Avenger, according to their story) was interested in buying Captain America, that this wouldn't set off a slew of red flags. They assumed that Vargas would suffer the threat that Bruce brought with him wherever he went entering into his home. They assumed that the preparations for mobilizing Vargas' weapons stores and guarding Captain America would sufficiently involve most of Vargas' soldiers so there would be fewer to avoid and maybe fewer to fight should things go sour. They assumed they would be able to survive this ridiculous dinner without being discovered. And they assumed that Vargas would bring Steve out on display for his audience before commencing his auction.

That last one was less of an assumption and more of an unfortunate certainty. Vargas was a showy bastard, and the potential buyers were far too smart to participate without some proof that the goods were real.

Their plan was embarrassingly simple. Once they had an eye on Steve, Bruce would attempt to win the auction. If he did, they would make their payment. Tony had configured the computer system to "fake" the massive transfer of funds from his account to whatever account Vargas desired, which required hacking Vargas' financial institution in real time (which Stark assured was not a problem, but they had no idea what cyber security features they would need to overcome to make this happen). Then they would hopefully walk out of there with Steve and without ever firing a weapon.

Of course, they all knew the best case scenario was a remote possibility. Things never went that smoothly, not with so many uncertainties that could only be overcome with good luck. That was why they were sneaking in weapons; Natasha would handle her own, and Clint would carry a secondary case that contained his bow, a set of arrows, and a few guns that Tony assured him would never be discovered by any scanner or manual search. Tony himself would wait miles away with the SHIELD quinjet at the extraction point, ready to move in at a moment's notice. When things went to shit (which was probably inevitable), Iron Man would attack to distract Vargas' forces (plus whatever forces the buyers might have brought with them) on the outside while the Hulk did the same on the inside. Natasha and Clint would whisk Steve to safety. But even this backup plan _required_ Vargas bringing Steve out from his stronghold, and that meant they needed to make this whole ploy work long enough for the auction to start.

It sucked, and they were all worried, but it was the best they could do.

They broke apart and went about their preparations. Bruce helped Tony rig their computer system and load their weapons cases. Natasha worked through her contacts in Vargas' organization to plant the seeds of Doctor Banner's interest in attending the evening's events. And Clint spent their last hour before departing trying to calm his rattled nerves. He normally was not this anxious before a mission, but this time his heart was pounding and his breath was short and shaky and his skin was perpetually coated in a cold sweat. He breathed deeply in the shower, gathering his equanimity. He cleared his mind as he shaved, finding his focus. He swore to himself that this mission _could not fail_, that he would die before he let anyone take Rogers again, as he made himself look the part.

He checked his appearance in the mirror of his quarters one last time, adjusting the gray silk tie so that it was perfectly straight and slipping his hands down the expensive black suit they'd procured from SHIELD's impressive stores of disguises and mission equipment. Then he noticed Natasha's reflection near the doorway to the small room. Sometime during his shower she'd slipped inside. She wore a stunning black dress and more make-up than normal. She looked gorgeous and enticing. She didn't smile, watching him finish up with empty eyes and lips pressed tightly together. She asked the question she hadn't been willing to ask before. "Are you sure you can do this?"

He looked at his own face again, at his pale skin and drawn features and hollow eyes. He looked like a man who'd nearly died, who'd been worn down and burned away, who'd been reduced to _nothing_. "You've never questioned my judgment before."

"You've never been like this before."

She was right. "I'm fine," he insisted.

Her knowing eyes darted to his right leg, the leg on which he was placing none of his weight. The leg that was bleeding anew from the stress of what he was doing to it, the reopened wound heavily braced and bandaged beneath the material of his slacks. Then she glanced to the open case on his bed, the case full of the drugs and bandages he'd pilfered from the infirmary. Clint followed her gaze and limped over and grabbed the couple of syringes he'd already prepared. He'd shot himself up after the shower with pain meds and meth, but these he'd made for the mission. He stuffed them in the inside pocket of his jacket. He was trying to do this as safely as he could, but he wasn't an idiot; he was messing around with dangerous stuff. The drugs were the only thing keeping him going, and she knew it as much as he did. She wasn't judging him. The rational part of his mind, the part that had watched her be _unmade_ from a seductive serial killer, knew that. But he still feared her disappointment.

She gently leaned away from the door frame, dropping her arms from across her chest. "I know you feel like this was your fault. You made a rough choice and it landed Rogers in Vargas' hands. But fixing it isn't worth your life."

"My life?" he repeated. He gave a sad chuckle that sounded more like a pinched grunt. "You know what this whole screwed up situation has taught me about my life?" He looked at her, unable to keep the pain from his eyes and voice anymore. He felt completely unhinged. "I've spent years looking away, turning a blind eye at horrors right in front of me. Horrors I've even been part of creating. And you know what, Nat? I can't do it anymore, because no matter how bad my decision was, I don't regret destroying Vargas' base. I don't regret that I took those weapons out of the hands of someone who would sell them to warlords and terrorists and dictators. I don't regret killing men who kill children. I don't feel bad about it, not even if it ruined the mission and led to Steve's capture. I don't feel bad about it."

"There's no place in our line of work for vengeance," she said.

Clint shook his head. "I'm not even sure that's what it was. But it doesn't matter why. I did it, and if there's one thing I've learned is that everything has a price, even things that should be free. I destroyed the base, so Steve was captured. I'm going to rescue Steve, and I don't care what it costs."

"You've never been reckless," she said.

"Really? Because that's what they called me when I brought you back." He closed his eyes tiredly and tried not to doubt. "Maybe that's alright. Maybe it's better to be that than a tool."

They didn't speak for a moment. He could tell that she wanted to say more, maybe try harder to convince him that this was foolish and dangerous and could result in his death or the death of someone else. He was compromised in every sense of the word, physically and emotionally. He was drawn thin and ill and too battered to think straight. And she was right. He wasn't so far gone as to not realize it. He just didn't care, because he really had no one, no family and no friends beyond the few people he trusted at SHIELD. His line of work forbade close relationships, love and attachment, as those sorts of things made one vulnerable and weak and exploitable. Thus his loss wouldn't mean much. He'd known that ever since he'd given up any semblance of a normal existence to become an agent. It hadn't been much of a sacrifice. He had been made for this, blessed with a steady hand and a cool mind and a tough spirit, and that had value. But not as much value as Captain America had. Someone of that caliber was damn near irreplaceable. That was what Phil Coulson had believed. Now he believed it, too.

Eventually Natasha sighed softly. Resignedly. She wasn't going to change his mind. "Take a look at the buyer list. There's someone on there you should know about." He nodded, swallowing through a dry and tight throat, at once relieved that she had dropped her attempts to stop him and sad that she was letting him go down this dark and deadly path. "Stick close to Banner. The man's awkward enough as it is. He has to play hard if he wants to convince anyone he's cruel enough to want to buy someone. And he can't lose his cool when he sees the Cap."

"I know," Clint responded. _None of us can._

"You guys are off in thirty. See you down there. Be careful."

She was gone before his drugged brain could send something thoughtful to say to his mouth. Clint lingered a moment more, the pleasant, analgesic fog in his mind slowly beginning to render him fairly apathetic (and maybe even a little euphoric) to the undoubtedly dangerous mission before him and the hellish nightmare behind him. He tested his bad leg for a moment; he was so numb (and high, when he wanted to admit it to himself) that the pain hardly bothered him. Stark's brace was working great, and he smiled like he hadn't nearly fallen apart minutes before and strolled quickly to the flight deck.

Banner, Stark, and Hill were there, making the final preparations for lift off. The quinjet was being loaded with the supplies they needed. They would fly from the helicarrier (which was cruising off the coast of Panama) and head south to a site fifteen miles north of Vargas' estate that had been canvassed as an extraction point earlier that day. There the Stark, Hill, and a small company of SHIELD agents would wait, hopefully never to be called in to provide support. Stark was already in his suit, the red and gold of Iron Man glinting sleekly in the afternoon sun. The helmet was retracted, revealing the billionaire's face. Hill was explaining the situation to the others gathered around her. "Expect air resistance. Vargas has a slew of birds bought from the Russians, including a few Kamov Helix-B troop transports and Hind gunships. We'll need to be on top of this, because there's no telling what he might have equipped the choppers with. Understood? Keep the firefight to a minimum until Captain Rogers has been extracted from the engagement zone. His safety is this mission's first objective."

Stark caught Clint's eyes as he crossed the flight deck. The billionaire stepped up, clearly trying to speed this along so the others might not notice the unauthorized addition to the mission. "Great pep talk. Everybody on board? Questions? No. Great. Let's make like horse shit and hit the trail," he ordered. Those assembled dispersed, rushing to complete the final jobs before departure.

Banner turned and met Clint at the entrance to the jet, dressed expensively in a charcoal suit and red tie. For once his perpetually mussed hair was neatly combed, and Clint could have sworn he was wearing cologne. He shook his head and climbed into the jet, clearly feeling _very_ out of his element. Tony slid Iron Man's metal mask into place, sharing a brief word with Agent Hill as Clint tried to sneak in.

But of course he wouldn't escape notice. "Agent Barton," Hill said, eyeing him critically. "You're not cleared for this mission."

"You can try to stop me if you want," he said, surprised at the gall in his voice. "But you'll have to shoot me."

He half expected her to. He didn't know Hill all that well; the young woman was fairly new to SHIELD, but she had shot up the ranks quickly to become Fury's assistant. She was very no-nonsense, beautiful but cold, and extremely guarded. He figured he was doomed the minute she saw him. "Go before I'm forced to act," she said, her voice clipped in irritation. He didn't know why it surprised him that she was permitting him to board. If he was leaving for this mission, it wasn't because he had outwitted or escaped Fury. It was because the master spy was letting him leave.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Still, he didn't need to be told twice, climbing into the jet as fast as he could. He took his seat in the back, leaving the piloting to Hill and the others. Bruce was already seated, and he handed Clint a tablet as the remaining SHIELD agents and soldiers took their places. He was feeling light-headed as the jet lifted off the helicarrier deck, caught between giggling and wanting to puke as his stomach did flops. Bruce eyed him warily. "Alright?"

"Yeah," Clint automatically answered. He turned his attention to the data before him, familiarizing himself with the schematics of Vargas' estate. Normally his agile mind made quick work of memorizing layouts, of deducing the fastest escape routes and the safest paths for stealthy infiltration, but he had to study the maps numerous times before anything sunk in. Then he read over their cover stories again and double checked the inventory of hidden weapons Stark had prepared for him.

They were nearly to Colombia before he remembered Romanoff's advice. He skimmed over the list of confirmed attendees to Vargas' soiree and immediately recognized one name. "Elihas Starr," he murmured, his blood running cold.

Bruce leaned closer, examining the man's biography on Clint's tablet. The picture featured a fairly banal face, with thick glasses and a gleaming bald head. "I know this guy," Banner said. "One of the world's foremost authorities on atomic physics. I saw him give a speech once in DC. He's practically a genius."

"I know him, too," Clint muttered, closing the file with a quick slide of his fingers over the screen. He shut his eyes and leaned back in his seat. "Egghead."

"What?" Of course. Of course Egghead, the power-hungry, maniacally brilliant, mad scientist that dealt death and doom like nothing else would want to buy Captain America. _Of course. _Suddenly Clint laughed. Bruce's expression rapidly switched from curiosity to frustration to outright concern. "Are you alright? Hawkeye?"

The drugs and the trauma freed more and more giddy laughter from his mouth. He couldn't stop himself. It was just so sad. So goddamn sad that it could only be funny. Somebody had it out for him. That was the only explanation. Somebody somewhere wanted to see him finally lose it and get himself killed.

The man who'd kidnapped and tortured Steve Rogers _and_ the man who'd murdered Barney Barton would be together in the same place at the same time. Clint laughed until his throat burned and his chest ached and tears filled his eyes. All he wanted to know was if this was a test, and if so, what the hell he needed to do to pass it.


	14. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**14**

It didn't feel good to be back in the rainforest. Although the jungle was significantly less dense in the expanse of the Llanos, just the sight of the thick grasses and overly verdant clumps of trees was enough to make Clint's stomach knot itself. He was already feeling fairly nauseous, and the heat was as awful as he remembered. The sun was so hellishly bright, even as it began to set and despite the sunglasses he wore. Every jolt of the jeep over the uneven terrain was unsettling, and he was gripping the armrest of his door so hard his knuckles were white. He could feel the sticky discomfort of sweat pasting his shirt to his lower back. His leg was throbbing despite the medications he'd taken. Banner obviously noticed his increasingly sad state (he could only imagine how pale he looked) and took pity by trying to avoid the worst of the ruts and holes in the dirt road. If a bumpy ride in a jeep was rendering him this weak and pained, he could only imagine how rough the night would be.

They'd landed the quinjet in a small clearing about fifteen miles away from Vargas' home. From there Clint and Bruce had quickly climbed into the waiting car and driven southward. This dinner party was set to begin at six o'clock, according to Natasha (who'd infiltrated the estate earlier). There wasn't time to do anything other than go, with Stark commanding them to get the Cap out of there and have a good time doing it as he directed them down the dirt road. Clint wasn't sure if the billionaire meant they should actually enjoy this farce of a party or enjoy defeating men who'd done so much damage to them. If Tony's angry eyes had been any indication, it had been the latter.

Ahead he saw the estate, surrounded in the front and sides by trees with the endless lush plains spreading behind it. He closed his eyes as the jeep thundered closer. He pushed everything away, searching for that calm, tranquil place where he could ignore pain and fear and guilt. Where he was a machine, built and trained for a singular purpose. Where he could concentrate. But he couldn't find it, not with his head spinning and his leg hurting and everything not quite right. He didn't know if it was the drugs or the trauma or the infection resurging, but the world seemed hazy, distant, blurry around the edges. Whatever the cause, it was both pleasant and disturbing that he couldn't focus, because the fog around his mind was protecting him and he knew it and, what was worse, he didn't care. The singular purpose. _Take aim. Hold fast. Breathe. Shoot._

_ Save Steve._

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"Huh?" Clint said, turning to look at Bruce.

Banner shook his head, surprise creasing his brow. "I didn't say anything," he declared, shooting a few worried glances at the other man as he drove the jeep. Clint averted his eyes and watched the blur of green outside the jeep's open window, embarrassed and a little worried because he could have sworn Banner had spoken. It was too damn late to turn back now, and they both knew it, but Bruce felt the need to ask the question. "Are you sure you can handle this?"

Again, the lie. "Yes," was Clint's curt response, the only answer he even let himself consider. A giggle tickled his throat, one he swallowed with a grimace of a smile. He watched the estate loom before them. That voice again. _You have heart_. He certainly did. It was pounding and pounding and _pounding._

Bruce wasn't convinced, but he didn't pursue the matter further. There wasn't time at any rate. They pulled up to the white-washed stone walls of the perimeter of the estate, the wrought-iron gate tightly sealed. Two finely dressed security guards exited the gatehouse as Bruce slowed the jeep. Clint watched them warily, seeing the flash of black metal beneath their silk coats. He glanced at the towers along the wall, spotted sniper rifles shining in the slowly setting evening sun. He felt Bruce tense beside him. "Remember," Clint said softly, catching the other man's eyes. "We're supposed to be here."

Bruce was nervous. His eyes were goddamn _mired_ in it. But he nodded, drawing a deep breath to center him, as they stopped. The two guards approached, one on either side. Their expressions were difficult to read, tight scowls that promised violence should they fail this first test. They could not fail this first test. "We're here for tonight's… engagement," Bruce said, putting on a stoic poker face that even Clint found impressive.

The man tipped his head slightly. "And who might you be, _Señor_?"

This was where they'd discover if Natasha had been successful in getting their names on Vargas' guest list. Romanoff had been out of contact since she'd left earlier that afternoon, so they could only have faith she'd done her job. "Doctor Bruce Banner," Bruce said evenly. He glanced to Clint. "And my associate, Clint Barton."

Suspicious glares passed over them. Analyzing them. Judging them. Clint met their looks firmly, trying to seem threatening and impressive despite how he felt. These men would never buy their stories if they appeared weak, indecisive, or intimidated. He'd dealt with some of the most dangerous and disreputable men in the world, and these sorts of villains and criminals were never unsure of themselves.

And he hoped they wouldn't find it strange that Doctor Banner was driving his "associate" around. Sadly, Clint's leg couldn't manage it. And, of course, there was the ever-present possibility that one of these goons would recognize him. He decided not to worry about that.

The silent appraisal considered another long, tense moment. Then the man leaned away from the car and nodded to his comrade. "You will be required to check your weapons at the door. Welcome, Doctor Banner."

The gate buzzed and then swung open. Bruce nodded to the guard and then drove inside. He breathed a deep sigh, glancing once at Clint. For his own part, Clint afforded him his little, inconspicuous show of relief this time and prayed the other man would hide any further such displays. A long sigh and a side-long glance revealed far too much to discerning eyes.

They were directed to park along a cobblestone cul-de-sac that curved before the front of a spacious mansion that put the richest, most extravagant places Clint had ever seen to shame. Clint didn't ogle, however, giving the grand exterior of palatial house only a passing look as they pulled behind a Range Rover. The yard was busy, filled with men working and standing guard. Crates and cartons (undoubtedly filled with guns) were being lifted and maneuvered into the flat beds of trucks. This was the problem with having such a secure household; there was no way Vargas could mask that he was moving a great deal of his weapons out of the estate with only a front and rear gate.

Bruce parked the car, their escorts waiting beside their designated place. One of them Clint recognized as Ortega. The man was dressed handsomely. He looked slick and every bit the scumbag Clint knew he was. But his face was covered in bruises. Clint hoped with all his heart that Steve had been the one to inflict them. "Good evening," Ortega said, offering them a small, professional smile. "Please step out of the car."

Both of the Avengers did so, Clint grinding his teeth as his stiff leg protested the motion and strain miserably. He was fairly certain he kept the wince from his face as he stood gracefully and stepped away from the car. The men proceeded to pat him down, giving the visibly uncomfortable Bruce the same treatment. "I apologize, but surely you understand," Ortega said, glancing between them, analyzing anew.

"Surely," Bruce said tensely.

"Do you have the money?" he then asked. At least he was direct. Bruce let his hands drop to his sides once the men were done searching him and nodded to the pair of sleek, silver briefcases in the car. Ortega gestured that he had his leave, and Clint turned and pulled the two cases from the rear seat of the jeep. He set one (the one that held his weapons in secret) to the ground beside his feet and opened the other before Ortega and Banner. The computer interface was revealed. "What is this?"

Bruce pressed his thumb to the fingerprint scanner on the side of the interface, and the screen winked to life. The computer made some pretense of connecting to Banner's vast personal assets via satellite before displaying the sum of money he'd prepared for the auction. "This computer directly connects to my account. It has been programmed to instantly transfer whatever I'm required to pay for Captain America to any bank account in the world that Mr. Vargas desires by my voice authorization."

Ortega examined the touch display a moment, a faint, wary look crossing his face. But he had to expect that the smartest and richest men would not travel with briefcases full of cash. He nodded. "Very good, Doctor Banner." Clint had to admit that what Tony and Bruce had concocted looked very real, very impressive, and very legitimate. "I see you are a man who takes security very seriously."

Bruce gave a shadow of a smile. "Don't we all."

Clint closed the case and knelt to grab the other when Ortega's voice stopped him. He felt more than saw the subtle, invisible readying of concealed weapons. "And this one?" the man asked, pointing to the second case.

"Ah," Bruce said. His grin turned into a small wince. "I wouldn't mess with that if I were you. It's, uh, _medicine_. For my condition."

The men reaching for the second case stopped immediately in their tracks, rising from their crouches and backing away. Ortega watched Bruce, sufficiently put-off by the thought of touching anything related to what had transformed a mild-mannered genius into a raging, uncontrollable green beast. Tony had been right when he'd been designing and coaching them on this ruse. _"Frighten them with science. They won't want to touch it."_ There was of course no medication, no cure or relief, for Bruce's "condition", but these bastards wouldn't know that.

Ortega swallowed somewhat uncomfortably, glancing between the case and Banner. "As you will, _Señor_. Shall we go inside?"

"Thanks," Bruce said, and Clint lifted both cases and followed Banner and Ortega as they slowly climbed the wide marble steps that led into Vargas' mansion.

Inside the air was cooler and smelled sweet and clean. Flowers adorned vases on pedestals, neatly trimmed and elegantly arranged. The ceilings were vaulted, the floors polished to a nearly unbearable shine. Clint didn't look at any of it, concentrating on _not_ seeming interested, on putting one foot steadily and purposefully in front of the other. On not limping, not swaying, not betraying how very difficult it was to act like he was healthy. He tried to keep his customary sharp eye on their surroundings, but it was tough to stay focused. Ahead Ortega was speaking with Bruce. "I must say, Doctor Banner, that Mr. Vargas was rather surprised at your interest in his business proposition. When Miss Rushman approached him about this this morning, he was… shall we say, wary."

"Yes, well, what's that saying? War creates strange bed fellows," Bruce answered.

"Is that what this is, _Señor_? War?"

"For me. And for the people who've invested in my efforts."

Ortega was silent for a moment as they traversed the long, spacious hallway. "Last we heard, you had joined some sort of… _superhero_ team to save the world. Captain America was part of that team, so it does seem strange that you're here only a month later. I guess you're not much for allegiance, yes?"

"I'm one for trying to fix my mistakes," Bruce said curtly. "I've lived with this hell long enough. I was coerced into helping in Manhattan. It wasn't my choice, and I don't care about the man behind Captain America. I only care about getting my life back." He eyed Ortega suspiciously. "Does Mr. Vargas interrogate all his potential customers this way? Because, as far as I'm concerned, my motivations shouldn't matter. I'm here with the money, and I want to buy Captain America. That's all he needs to know." Clint had to hand it to Banner. He was doing an admirable job of playing the part, of keeping cool. Rooting this story in reality had been a wise move, even if it was a little disturbing to think that Bruce could ever be this cold and heartless.

Ortega offered a look that rang of false sympathy. "Mr. Vargas merely wishes to assure the safety of both his household and his guests," he assured. "He means no disrespect."

"I see," Bruce said. They were nearing a large, open room with many airy windows dressed in gossamer. Low chatter that felt forced and uncomfortable drifted into the hallway, as well as the smell of fine food. Clint's stomach clenched. "Well, please let Mr. Vargas know that as long as I have access to my medication, he has nothing to worry about."

Ortega smiled that oily, condescending grin. "Very good, _Señor_. Please." He gestured to the open French doors. "Enjoy some hors d'oeuvres and refreshments. The auction will commence shortly."

"Thanks," Banner said without a smile or even a glance in their escort's direction. He nodded to Clint, and the two men strolled inside the room.

To call this assembly a party was a vast overstatement, but what sort of merriment could one expect from a group of evil scientists, terrorists, dictators, and criminals? The buyers stood about, stiffly ignoring each other. Any conversation was quiet and occurring only among members of the same group. The tension was thick and potent. It was quite obvious this collection of murderers and monsters had no love for this forced meeting or for being made to wait. Angry, impatient, suspicious glances were darted around the room. Clint knew quite a few of these men. Representatives from al Qaeda. From Hezbollah and Hamas. From North Korea. From old Soviet factions. From AIM and other biotech labs that dealt in chemical weapons. From all sorts of bad places, bad men with bad intentions, all types of evil with one thing in common.

They all wanted the super soldier serum.

Clint thought he was going to be sick, and not just because he was nauseous to the point of dizziness. One well-placed strike from SHIELD and the world would be so much safer, so much more secure. Granted that the larger organizations had not sent their leaders; rather, lieutenants and right-hand men were in attendance. Even still, taking them out would be a major achievement. But that wasn't the mission objective. Save Steve, arrest Vargas, and contain the situation. SHIELD would handle the rest. SHIELD would take care of it. SHIELD would ensure the right outcome.

But he was starting to have some different opinions from SHIELD on what was right.

Clint spotted Natasha. She stood near the rear of the room, chatting with a few other richly dressed women who were likely the wives or lovers of Vargas' lieutenants. One, a very beautiful young lady with cold eyes, he recognized as Vargas' wife. Romanoff glanced his way for only a second, but he knew she'd seen him. They'd become experts at communicating with short, indirect looks. She was well and ready. Everything was going according to plan thus far. He understood all of that from the cursory shift of her blue eyes, from the relaxed lines of her body, from the way she casually grabbed a crystal champagne flute from a passing serving boy, from her supposed engrossment in the conversation in which she was partaking. If anything was wrong, she would have found a way to alert him.

Then he saw Egghead. The bastard was surrounded by men, likely his own hired goons. He stood, laughing, eating the rich food, and drinking wine. He was about the only person who was. He was just as Clint remembered. Short and fairly unintimidating, if not for the maniacal gleam that seemed to continually fill his beady, black eyes. He was completely bald, his skin atop his sizeable cranium nearly as shiny as the outrageously polished floors beneath their feet. He wore a form-fitting black suit over a black turtleneck. He stood out from this crowd of quiet, serious men like a sore thumb, his eccentricities proudly displayed like a badge of honor as he joked with his henchmen and flirted with the female servers. It was like he was continually trying to prove brawn didn't matter over brilliance. Maybe it didn't. He was every bit the genius that Tony Stark or Bruce Banner was, but without the good heart and noble intentions. And that made him just about as dangerous as any other murderer in the room.

Clint struggled not to look, but his eyes kept wandering back to the large group of men surrounding the small madman in the middle. It was the first time he'd seen the mastermind since Mumbai, and the urge to dive into the "medicine" case and grab his bow was almost unstoppable. His hand shook as he clenched tighter and tighter around the handle of the briefcase. _Egghead._ His eyes narrowed into a murderous glare, and the rest of the room fell away. All of the other evil men and their evil associates faded into a haze of indistinct shapes and a hum of murmured sound. He was staring and he knew he shouldn't because it would be noticeable, but he couldn't stop. Then the men around Egghead shifted, and he thought he saw… Could that be… "Barney?" he whispered.

"Clint?" came a quiet voice beside him.

"What?" he said, never tearing his eyes away from that familiar face, from those brown eyes and that mussed dirty blond hair and that square face. This couldn't be possible, because Barney had thrown himself in front of Natasha on a dirty street in Mumbai, because Barney had bled out from all those gunshot wounds before his very eyes, because Barney had _screwed up_ and gotten himself killed. Because Barney was a good guy but always got himself in with the wrong crowd. And here he was, with the wrong crowd yet again.

There was a slight nod, a knowing smirk. Barney always thought he was so goddamn _right_, even when he was so completely wrong. He lifted his wine glass in a small toast.

"Clint!" came the voice again, only harsher and more insistent.

Clint turned, snapping his gaze away, and saw Banner watching him worriedly. "Damn it, Barton," Bruce said lowly, stepping closer as to keep their conversation private and inconspicuous. "What the hell? You with me?"

"Yeah," he promised breathlessly. He felt dizzy and lost a moment, the world tipping and his leg threatening to collapse out from under him. He shook his head, _remembered _where the hell he was and what he was going. Clint looked back to Egghead. The bastard was still there, surrounded by his men, but Barney was gone. No, Barney had_ never been there._ "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You're lying," Banner hissed angrily. There was a dangerous, frightened glint in his brown eyes. That alone should have been enough to ground Clint, but the drugs and the pain were stronger. They were veritably hiding in a damn nest of snakes, and they couldn't afford a single lapse in concentration, a single moment of weakness. A single mistake. Bruce had every right to be angry.

And all Clint could wonder was if what he'd seen was somehow real.

"I can do this," he said. The words came from his mouth without thought. He glanced around again, but Barney was nowhere to be found. "I can do this." He did see Ortega stop beside Natasha and squeeze her rear before drawing her in for a possessive kiss. Then he and a few other of Vargas' men left through the rear of the room, down a hallway he knew led deeper into the bowels of the estate. Clint watched them until he couldn't see them anymore, and ice settled in his belly. "I can do this."

Bruce said nothing more, politely refusing a drink from a server as the man passed them. They waited in silence then. The tension in the room amplified with each passing second, eyes shifting from face to face. Eyes filled with hardly controlled violence. Eyes teeming in anger and frustration and dwindling patience. Eyes suspicious and competitive and anxious. Clint felt his concentration wavering as the time slipped away. His leg was aching miserably, and exhaustion stubbornly dragged down his eyelids. If it weren't for a mounting sense of dread settling in his empty, throbbing stomach, he'd likely have passed out already. He knew he needed to stay alert, but it was getting so damn hard, and the pleasant barrier of the pain medication was beginning to fade.

Clint wasn't sure at first if he was hallucinating. Dressed in a way that proclaimed how very wealthy he was, Vargas seemed less a man and more a demon as he strolled to the center of the room. Of course, the first and only time he had seen the drug lord he'd been delirious, and the bastard had been a monster, looming over him, condemning him to death. "Good evening, my friends, and thank you for coming. Please continue to enjoy the refreshments. In a moment, I will bring forth what you have all come here to see, and then we will commence the auction. No sense in taking more of your valuable time than necessary." Vargas smiled, clasping his hands before him. "If you are, for any reason, unsatisfied with what you see, you're free to go, no questions asked. Otherwise, my associates will be distributing a device that will allow you to submit a single bid for Captain America. Once all of the bids have been submitted, the winner will be determined and privately informed as you leave."

There was a murmur throughout the room, likely due to the secretive nature of Vargas' plans. They weren't pleased, as they were left little recourse. This was something akin to a silent auction, and each buyer had only one chance, completely ignorant of the competitors' bids, to win the prize. Clint wondered if this could perhaps work in their favor. It had certainly succeeded in riling and irritating the buyers. "Please, my friends, you must appreciate my need for security. While I am more than willing to sell Captain America to any of you, only one of you can buy him. I must ensure my safety should the unfortunate losers feel the need to continue this competition. Therefore, bear in mind that while you have so graciously surrendered your weapons, my men are entirely prepared to use theirs. Once you leave my estate, your business is your own, but here, I must request that you abide by my rules."

A gutsy speech, Clint reckoned, considering the caliber of evil present in the room. But Vargas knew how dangerous and risky his game was. He had to keep this crowd of violent men under control, especially since some (perhaps even most) would not take well to losing. Wars had been fought over far less than the super soldier serum. Vargas eyed the assembly coolly, trying to seem both gracious and threatening. He managed it repulsively well. "If we're all in agreement, then let's begin. I'll afford each of you three minutes to examine the goods before we begin the auction."

Clint's blood turned to ice and his heart thudded painfully in his chest. A cold sweat bathed him anew, and he nearly wavered at the shock to his already burdened body. They hadn't anticipated this. Banner stiffened beside him; obviously he'd come to the same damning conclusion. They couldn't _examine_ Steve. If Steve recognized them, there was no way to tell how he might react. If he had his wits about him, he might play along. But if he didn't… This had always been a weakness of their plan, but it had been one they'd been willing to tolerate because the chances of Rogers seeing them were reduced if they were just two more faces in a crowd of cruel people objectifying him.

However, they couldn't _not _examine him, either. Not without arousing suspicions. Damned if they did and damned if they didn't. Perhaps abandoning this farce and calling in their support would be the best move at this point.

When the scuffle in the back reached the center of the room, he realized that that wasn't an option. Steve was hauled forward, carried by four of Vargas' thugs, with another half dozen men flanking him. His hands were tightly manacled before him, his ankles bound as well, and he was gagged. He was barely conscious, blue and pale and shivering wildly. His head lolled against his chest as the men deposited him roughly in the center of the opulent banquet hall. Steve sagged onto his knees, held upright only by the hand tangled cruelly in his hair, a slew of unwavering assault rifles trained on his quaking, gasping form even though it was pretty goddamn obvious that he was far beyond the point of struggling. He was covered in vicious bruises and scrapes and cuts. Dried and fresh blood covered his burned hands and ripped pants. He looked like he had been through hell.

The hell to which he'd willingly surrendered himself to save his friend.

Clint struggled not to avert his eyes, even as his throat constricted and his heart pounded and his belly roiled in fury. He felt Bruce stiffen beside him, sensed the mild-mannered scientist's form go completely taut as he stared at Steve's brutalized body. _Hold it together, doc,_ Clint silently implored. _Hold it together. Hold it together. _With those guns pointed at Steve, any aggressive or suspicious action could lead to Rogers' death faster than they could prevent. They were helpless for the moment. They needed to wait, to be patient.

Vargas smiled as he looked down on his prize, on how low he'd brought Captain America. "My, how the mighty have fallen," he commented, and that won a small rumble of applause and appreciation that was damn near unbearable to witness. "My men will escort you to view the prisoner."

The next thirty minutes were downright torturous. Clint and Bruce stood still, pretending to be as comfortable and anxious as everyone else seemed, as the buyers took a look at Steve one at a time. Most had brought a doctor or some sort of scientist with them, someone with the knowledge to confirm whether or not the man before them was in fact Captain America. Steve was nearly catatonic, hardly reacting to the rough treatment of his body as he was examined and analyzed and poked and prodded like a goddamn _specimen_. His eyes were half-lidded and vacant, like he was _gone_. Broken. Clint closed his own eyes for moment and looked down, fighting the swell of rage. This was his fault. _His fault_.

He felt Barney come to stand beside him. He'd always been able to tell when Barney was near, even when they were little boys. He'd needed to know his brother was close when their mother had died. Barney set a hand on his shoulder. His voice was a low rumble. "You always make mistakes. You've lived a life of them."

Clint looked at Steve again and saw the warden standing behind him, his neatly trimmed fingers pressed possessively into the flesh of Rogers' bruised shoulder. He smiled a calm smile that never reached his dead eyes. Clint blinked, and it wasn't the warden at all, but Vargas. The fingers dug deeper and deeper, curling, cutting, until blood ran in a torrent down Steve's breast. Redder than red shoes. Children were screaming.

"Be a good boy, Clint, and go back to sleep."

"No," he whispered.

"Clint?" Bruce's voice cut through the haze, and when he looked at Steve again there was no blood, no warden behind him. Vargas wasn't even behind him. But Egghead was there, circling Steve like he was a predator sizing up his prey.

"He seems to be in bad shape, Mr. Vargas," Egghead said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He gave you some trouble?"

Vargas didn't answer what might have been a jab or simply Egghead's complete lack of social skills. Instead he said, "He heals at a very rapid rate, and anything I've done to break his spirit is only beneficial to you."

"Perhaps." Egghead grabbed Steve's chin and lifted his face momentarily to look into the soldier's glazed eyes. "Perhaps not. I'm finished." He backed away, his retinue of guards in tow.

"Stay back," Bruce whispered to Clint. Banner's face was white and his expression was pinched in worry and dread, though he was trying hard to steel his features back into his tense frown. "Stay."

"Doctor Banner," Vargas called, and Ortega was there to escort Banner, the last of the buyers, to Steve. Clint managed to gather his wits enough to pay attention. He stood stock still, unwavering, holding his breath and damning everything and everyone. His leg threatened to rebel against his stiff posture, but he refused to show any sign of weakness or emotion as Bruce went about examining Steve, just as all the other buyers had.

He caught sight of Natasha's gaze across the room as she and the other women observed from the rear, safely apart from the activity. "Don't do this to yourself, Clint," she called, her eyes wide in worry. "Fixing your mistakes isn't worth your life." He was about to yell at her, to chastise her for blowing their cover, for letting him come at all when she had been so damn right, but he didn't, because nobody else had noticed her shout. His skin itched, paranoia digging vicious fingers into his brain and gouging. He wanted his bow. He wanted the smooth, slick feeling of a gun in his hand. He wanted that power, that security. He felt naked and exposed and vulnerable. He wanted something to protect himself. He couldn't think straight. It was so goddamn hot.

_Hold it together, Barton. Hold it together!_

Bruce was back in three minutes. Steve had apparently never recognized him. Steve had apparently said or done _nothing_, limp and weak and hardly conscious. Bruce had his back to Vargas and his prisoner and the demons that surrounded them. Banner's eyes were filled with fear and anger as leaned close to Clint. "We need to get him out of here," he whispered desperately, whispering like he was delivering his opinion on the prize. He grasped Clint on the shoulder as Barney had. Hard and firm and real. So very real. "He's severely hypothermic."

_Frozen alive. And I'm melting._ He tried not to laugh, but a little sobbing chuckle forced its way through his lips. Another cruel joke, and the children were still screaming. All his mistakes lay bare before him. He was losing his goddamn mind. He needed to think. He needed to concentrate. He cleared his muddled, miserable thoughts from his head, wiped the blurriness from his vision. He banished the delirium dancing on the corners of his consciousness. Now more than ever, he needed that calm, quiet place. "Go on," Barney said softly before he vanished. "You can do this." _Take aim. Hold fast. Breathe. Shoot._

_ Save Steve._

He found that small sanctuary at last. He _could_ do this. He could be a hero. Maybe that was what this was about after all.

The dark demons were merely men, and he could kill men.

Clint took a deep breath. It was time. Vargas stepped forward, opening his arms to the group. "Gentlemen, if all is to your satisfaction, let's begin the bidding."

* * *

_Señor __– _Sir (Mister).


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**15**

Vargas wanted to sell Captain America.

This drug lord, this man, wanted to sell Steve Rogers to those who would undoubtedly do him harm and the world evil. He wanted to run his auction with earth's villains as an audience to gaudily proclaim how strong and smart and _powerful_ he was. No matter who won Captain America, he wanted to be certain that he triumphed. That he walked away wealthier and more formidable than anyone could have predicted. It was goddamn unbelievable that it had come to this.

And Clint would have never imagined that his routine reconnaissance mission into Vargas' base would lead to the dangerous showdown that was about to unfold.

A slew of soldiers surrounded Steve, serving to both ensure his submission and protect him from any rash efforts on the part of the buyers to end this fiasco early through robbery. Clint could barely see Steve's shivering form through the mess of legs and guns, but that was maybe for the best. He'd gathered his wits, pulled together the raggedly torn edges of his composure, drawn his will tight to protect his battered heart and beaten mind. He couldn't afford the distraction of guilt, of shame and hurt, of caring. Not now.

A sleek, black tablet, no larger than a smartphone, was handed to Bruce. Vargas' men moved through the rest of the room, distributing these devices to each group of buyers. As they prepared, Vargas stepped forward, his smooth, well-pampered hands clasped before him. "Sadly, my friends, our evening is coming to its end. Once I give the signal to begin, you will have two minutes to privately make your bid. After that, my men will escort you out and bid you a fond farewell."

The room was silent, caught in a thick, angry tension. Nobody was pleased with this arrangement. But there was no choice, and that was the unspoken understanding. So each buyer took the tablet without a word, eyes hard with threatening, furious glares that spoke volumes of their malcontent over their lack of control and recourse. Bruce released a slow breath, holding the device in his hands with more than wariness in his eyes. Clint held himself still, certain they would not win this, so he was trying desperately to anticipate who would and how it would transpire. They needed the auction to occur to get Vargas' men away from Steve; an assault at this juncture would only end with Steve's murder. The fog in Clint's head threatened again, the pain ever-present and ever-looming, and he fought the wince creeping onto his face. He looked around slowly, trying to gauge, trying to _guess_, who would proffer the lucky winning bid. But there was nothing he could do other than wonder, than wait and hope this went better than he feared it would.

Vargas took a champagne flute from a server who graciously bowed before him. "Alright, friends. A toast to you." He raised his glass, smiling handsomely, before taking a sip. Clint wanted to knock his perfect teeth out. "Make your bids."

The tablet in Bruce's hand glowed as the screen activated, revealing his name in the upper right corner and a large series of red numbers in the left counting down the two minutes they had to submit their offer. A large section of the black window was boxed in green, a keypad filling the touch screen below it. And that was it. A name, the time they had, and what they would pay. Their last chance to prevent bloodshed and end this without a fight.

Banner subtly stepped closer to Clint, trying quite adamantly _not_ to appear as though he was seeking guidance. They had settled on a predetermined amount of money they could bid. This limit was not so much based on Tony's actual assets (as the entire system they'd doctored was a lie at any rate, so they could have chosen _any_ amount to be their hypothetical funds), but it was grounded by the parameters of reality. An obscenely large sum suddenly appearing without prior indication would draw attention and questions. They had 375 million dollars to work with. Banner hesitated a moment, his fingers resting apprehensively just above the touchpad. Clint swallowed through a dry, aching throat, fighting against a rebounding swell of vertigo before he managed a nod. He glanced over as Bruce keyed in their bid. There was no sense in holding back; this would be their only chance. Bruce's thumb hovered over the green submit button. Clint could veritably feel his doubt, his anxiety. This was all they could do, and Bruce seemed to realize that and force himself to accept it. His thumb pressed down, and the tablet locked itself from any further manipulation. Banner closed his eyes briefly and let his hands drop to the side, the device tightly closed in his right, his left balled into a hopefully discrete fist. Then they waited.

Clint counted himself as extremely patient. He'd spent many minutes of his life behind the scope of a sniper rifle or sighting his target down his bow, an arrow held taut and ready to launch. He'd spent many slow heartbeats and shallow breaths motionless, silent, biding his time and waiting for the exact moment to strike. But this was damn miserable, standing hidden among the worst villains in the world, helplessly and haplessly letting the seconds slip away at an agonizingly slow pace. His leg was throbbing with each passing moment, a steady, pulsing hell that was seeping into his body like acid, but he could only clench his muscles and quiet his thoughts and let time torment him. Eventually a minute crept by.

The sounds of chains rattling filled the vacuous quiet. Though Clint couldn't quite see from his vantage near the room's entrance, he knew that it was Steve struggling. He ground his teeth together, forcing calm to ease the tension in his muscles, as he looked to the center of the room. The wall of soldiers shifted to contend with Steve as he feebly tried to stand. There was a barked order in Spanish and the sound of flesh striking flesh. The entire gathering was watching at this point, so Clint didn't feel concerned staring. He should have been. But his intuition, normally so sharp and flawless, had yet again utterly failed him.

The soldiers moved just so, opening a transient line of sight between him and Rogers. Steve was trembling, squirming against the hands pushing down on his shoulders and arms, but his panicked blue eyes, abruptly so much more aware than before, shifted wildly. Until they locked on Clint. And then they widened. Steve paled further (if that was even possible) and stiffened. It was impossible to determine what was running through the soldier's mind at that point; logic dictated he might believe he had seen a ghost, since he'd been forced to leave Clint to die in a field of corpses with no hope of rescue and there was no way he could have known what had really happened. But hypothermia was a wicked beast that rid the mind of its faculties. It didn't matter at any rate. The recognition and dawning horror claiming Steve's face nearly rid Clint of his meagerly bolstered control over his own delirium, shame and agony racing through him like the fire of fever. He nearly closed his eyes and looked away as the hallucinations pressed again. Nearly.

At the last second he clammed up and remembered that he needed to _stay calm_ and focused. He steeled his face, attempted to appear nonchalant, and hoped that nobody noticed that now Rogers was flailing and fighting out of hysteria rather than an effort to save himself. _Prayed_ that nobody had seen that Steve's wide, horrified eyes had settled on his face and hadn't wavered since. It was likely a good thing Rogers was gagged so his muffled cries and words couldn't betray his would-be rescuers to this crowd of evil. And it was a damn good thing the soldiers moved again and obscured their views of each other and broke the unexpected and abrupt connection.

Clint breathed through his nose, fighting _everything_ that threatened him, and forced himself to look away from the struggle taking place before his very eyes. He caught Natasha's glance, caught the small, worried shake of her head, the desperate plea that he do nothing to make this situation worse. He wasn't about to. He held on. _He held on._

There was a rush of quiet orders between Vargas and his thugs, the drug lord's face betraying the very depths of his rage and embarrassment, as he commanded his men to get their prisoner under control. They couldn't very well further abuse Steve in front of the very men to whom they were trying to sell him. Instead they pushed him down to the floor, pressing his shoulders to the smooth, sleek wood. The muzzles of their guns were driven into his back. A bald man that looked vaguely familiar to Clint knelt at Steve's side, his large, meaty hand wrapped around the back of Steve's neck as he shoved the Avenger's face into the floor.

Vargas turned back to his guests. "I apologize for the interruption. Please finish making your bids."

The hellish minute continued, unabated. Rage spilled from Banner in a dark, malicious aura, barely restrained. Clint took his weight from his bad leg, unable to stand it anymore. He shifted closer to Bruce, as if he could impart control with his mere proximity, and the scientist did seem to notice the slight press of the archer's shoulder to his own and broke his murderous glare to glance at his companion. Clint gave a confident nod, far more confident than he actually felt. If they lost the auction, they would still rescue Steve. There was no way any of these monsters was leaving with Captain America.

The bidding time expired, and the auction ended. Dozens of pairs of expectant, suspicious eyes settled on Vargas. Clint noticed Ortega in the back of the room glance at the tablet in hands and nod toward his boss. Vargas smiled, but it was easy to see how excited he was at the prospect of the amount of money he'd just illegally acquired. Clint's anger boiled his blood. "Thank you all." And that was it. Without any further fanfare, the drug lord made a hasty exit, stopping at the rear of the room to offer his arm to his gorgeous wife. She smiled sweetly, a sentiment that never reached her chocolate eyes, and kissed his cheek before joining him in sauntering from the hall.

The tablet in Bruce's hand suddenly vibrated gently. Clint would never have known had he not been standing so close to Banner. Bruce lifted it, turning slightly to hide whatever the screen was displaying. Two red words, all in capital letters, flashed over his grayed out bid. "BID REJECTED". His hopes plummeted for a moment, and then Clint rapidly looked around the room and spied everyone else checking the devices they'd been given. One of them had to have won. He quickly scoured eyes for relief or excitement, analyzed lips for the slightest sign of a grin, watched bodies for anger or pleasure at the outcome. There were simply too many people, not only the buyers but their lackeys, so it was impossible to clearly tell who even held the tablets let alone who had made the highest bid.

And, much to his surprise, nobody betrayed a goddamn thing about what had transpired. These bastards were doing exactly what Vargas had wanted: keeping it all under control, all under wraps. And then he realized he really shouldn't have been shocked at all. They didn't want to admit they'd lost in front of their peers; the evil, the sadistic, the strong and powerful couldn't stand to damage their egos by admitting defeat. And whoever _had_ won would certainly not wish to risk retaliation or losing their hard-won prize.

Frustration left him shaken, itching with energy, with the unmitigated desire to _stop this_, when he spotted Egghead on the other side of the room. The mad scientist's eyes glinted in just such a way as he glanced at his tablet. He'd never really seen Egghead before; the mission in Mumbai had turned to hell so fast that SHIELD never apprehended the villain. But he knew that Egghead had won the auction, knew it in his heart and bones with an aching ire, because he'd imagined that smug, round face in his dreams, and he'd pictured that damn hungry, self-satisfied shine in those beady eyes so many times in the past. Because the man who'd exposed Barney Barton as a mole in his organization and orchestrated his downfall would look so innocuous yet somehow so sinister.

And suddenly it was all he could do not to break.

"It's Starr," Clint whispered, ducking his head slightly toward Banner. Vargas' lieutenants were dispersing throughout the room to escort the buyers out. They were snakes dressed in finery. Ortega swaggered closer; the level of goddamn euphoria now infecting Vargas' men was disgusting.

"What?" Banner whispered back harshly.

"It's Starr!" Clint hissed again. Ortega was had almost reached them. The room was filled with murmurs now, with low conversation as the buyers were ushered out. But they couldn't leave. They couldn't leave Rogers here. They had to call in Stark. These thoughts whirled through Clint's frenzied mind as Ortega strolled closer and closer. Steve yelped and the sound of scuffling filled the room anew. Clint could hardly concentrate, his thoughts dashed and scattered and tangled and torn between the horrifying and enraging realization that Egghead had won Rogers and the horrifying and enraging struggle going on before him. Steve seemed to have come to his senses a bit, at least enough to realize what was happening. He pushed himself upward with his bound hands, his torso shaking even more violently, his muscular arms bulging. The bald man motioned to a few of his men, and they rushed over to help in restraining the newly energized prisoner. They couldn't shoot him. Not now. They didn't own him anymore.

"Doctor Banner," Ortega said as he reached them, calm despite the savage struggle going on behind him. "Allow me to lead you to your car. Your business here is concluded."

Bruce hesitated, which obviously worried Ortega. The man's eyes darted to the case at Clint's side, the case that supposedly contained Banner's "medicine". Behind them, nearly a dozen soldiers were attempting to restrain Steve. It was likely only because Steve was so weak, so bound and hobbled, that they were able to hold him down. Clint highly doubted even the arsenal of guns pointed at him would have subdued him at this point. "Doctor Banner," Ortega prompted.

They lingered too long. Or poor fortune struck them yet again. Clint swore he was a goddamn _magnet_ for bad luck these days. Steve lurched off the floor, his wild eyes flying to the two Avengers, out of his mind with delirium and desperation. Any hope that Steve hadn't noticed them rapidly fizzled. Any belief that he would unwittingly play along in their farce dissolved and ran like water through their useless fingers. Any _dream_ that this would end without a fight utterly died. Steve screamed hoarsely and launched toward them before being yanked roughly back. It might have looked like senseless struggling to the others (Clint prayed that it did), but to them, it was anything but. And it was incredibly difficult to stay still.

The bald man punched Steve in his exposed abdomen, sending him down to the floor. A sack was roughly pulled over his head and tied tightly. And then Vargas' men hauled the shouting, struggling soldier away, the large group of them floundering to restrain him. Still they managed to get him from the room.

Ortega seemed perturbed by their seeming preoccupation with the few moments Steve had spent trying to reach them. But his eyes kept shifting worriedly to that briefcase, and he opened his arms to them. "Please, Doctor Banner. Allow me."

"I know you."

It all might have escaped notice once. But not twice.

Not twice.

The nasally voice pierced through the commotion of the other buyers departing and Steve being mercilessly drug into the hall behind the dining area. Clint turned and spotted Egghead and his goons standing near the door. The small, unassuming man's analytical eyes were trained on him. And Clint tried to look away and salvage this disaster. He lifted the two cases and turned to Banner. "Doctor Banner, there will be other opportunities," Clint soothed, as if reassuring the other man over the loss of his chance to remedy his condition. "Let's go."

"I _know _you." Egghead was insistent, pushing closer and closer to them even as they tried to escape. "You. I know you. You're Barton, aren't you? I know your face. You remind me of your brother." Egghead's damn smug smile returned, setting his eyes aglow in maniacal pride over his own powers of deduction. "Mr. Ortega, I believe you have a bird of prey eyeing your catch." At Ortega's confused expression, Egghead released a long-suffering sigh and gestured toward Clint and Bruce. "They're SHIELD, you idiot." Then Egghead and his men left.

Everything blew wide open.

From the inside of his vest, Ortega swiftly pulled his gun and aimed it at Banner. Thankfully most of the irate buyers had already departed, and those that remained only watched dispassionately. They didn't know what sort of monster lay in their midst. An _actual _monster, and Clint realized from the set of Bruce's jaw and the rage roiling in his eyes and the growing greenish hue of his skin that that monster was breaking free.

Ortega knew it, too. Terrified, he gestured to the armed guards racing closer than they should hold back, and they did, skidding to a halt and pointing their rifles at the Avengers. Clint went taut, trying to control his pounding heart and keep his encroaching delirium at bay, as he darted his eyes around the slew of men threatening them. "Keep yourself calm, Doctor Banner."

Bruce was doing anything but. Clint didn't want to stop him anymore. He closed his hand tighter around the handle of the briefcase with Banner's "medicine" and inconspicuously thumbed open the lock. "You think it's that easy?" Banner asked roughly, his breath growing harder and his muscles clenching violently. "You think your guns will stop me? You have _no idea_ what you let into your party."

"I know my guns can kill him, even if they can't touch you," Ortega coolly responded. "You won't be fast enough to stop it."

There was a shadowy shift of black sparkles and pale skin, and suddenly Natasha was there, sliding across the room to stand beside her would-be lover with a gun leveled at his temple. Her eyes were empty, icy and deadly, and she stood completely still, her arm held taut and the weapon unwavering. "Will you be fast enough to stop this?" she asked evenly, her finger ready on the trigger. Then she lifted her other wrist to her mouth, the one adorned with a sparkling onyx bracelet that Clint knew was far more that met the eye. "Stark, now."

Ortega was no fool. At that he squeezed a shot off at Clint, which Clint blocked by rapidly bringing the case up. The bullet struck and broke the hard exterior, and Clint was knocked back. He made a show of falling (which wasn't too much of a show as his leg failed him) and reached inside the now open container. He grabbed his bow as he went down, and with a well-practiced snap the weapon unfolded. He hit the ground and pulled the arrows out and nocked one. It took less than a breath to sight another of Vargas' lieutenants, who was about to shoot Natasha's back, and put an arrow in his forehead.

Natasha acted almost instantly, shooting Ortega in the belly. The man went down with a howl, clutching at a wound that would most assuredly lead to a slow and painful demise. Then she lithely dove to the side as the soldiers unleashed a rain of gunfire on them. Bullets slammed into the floor and walls with a shower of splinters and plaster. They shattered Vargas' expensive vases behind him and killed the servers unfortunate enough to be in the crossfire. And they angered Banner even further. The man was already shifting, growing, changing into the Hulk. Skin turned green. Muscles swelled extraordinarily into weapons to produce mass destruction. Logic and cognizant thought and control _fled_. And the next time Clint glanced into Banner's eyes, the man was gone, and the monster roared.

The soldiers uselessly emptied their magazines, shooting wildly at the massive Avenger thundering toward them. The ground shook, breaking under the Hulk's pounding legs, as he charged. The bullets were like mosquitoes to the Hulk, a tiny nuisance that did nothing to slow him. He reached the men and swatted at them with a gigantic swipe. One soldier flew into the wall with a bone-crushing crunch. Another was bashed through the windows to the left in a spray of glass. Yet another was downright crushed as the Hulk got his vengeance for what these bastards had done to Steve. The Hulk screamed, and the men did, too.

Natasha skittered close to Clint. She helped him up, knowing from only the wince pinching his face how much pain he felt. She fired her gun again, catching another of Vargas' men in the leg, before yanking her partner across the room. "We're getting Rogers!" she shouted to the Hulk, but if the beast registered what she said, it wasn't obvious. He was smashing through the men that dared to face him like they were dolls. His fist rammed into the ceiling, creating a sizeable hole and a series of widening cracks. Clint struggled to keep up with Romanoff as she dodged and twisted and turned, avoiding the men reaching for her with cat-like grace. Normally he wouldn't have had a problem meeting her agility, but his leg was useless. It wasn't that Stark's brace wasn't working. The pain was just too much, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

Romanoff protected him without his asking, slowing and taking on anyone who came too close. Clint nocked another arrow from the handful he had with him, taking rapid aim and landing it deeply into the belly of a soldier. His next shot went wild as Natasha yanked him down under return fire. She pulled him across the damaged floor, the once pristine surface covered in debris, toward the bar at the opposite end of the room where she been standing. Bullets peppered from the front of the tall surface, biting into the wood. But it was good cover.

Still, protection alone wasn't why Natasha had brought him here. She quickly opened one of the liquor cabinets in the wall behind them, revealing a black bag where there should have been bottles of liquor. She unzipped the duffle, grabbing his fully-stocked quiver and handing it to him. The noise of the battle raging behind them was deafening, the wails of the terrified men rending the air. And the hellacious thundering of the Hulk running shook the whole room, freeing more plaster and wood from the broken ceiling, and the beast was gone.

They wasted not a second. Natasha had packed her little stash of weapons well. After Clint got his tie off, he struggled out of his jacket and into his quiver which she held for him. She handed him a hand gun and numerous clips for it. Faster than he thought possible she went about ripping the lower half of her dress off above the knee and strapping her weapons to herself. Everything was so jumbled and hazy; he felt like he was floundering in fever and agony again. She pushed a communicator into his palm and then put another in her own ear. Finally, she fished in his discarded suit jacket for the syringes she'd seen him stuff in there. Uncapping them with her teeth, she jabbed him in the leg with a shot of morphine and a shot of meth. Tossing the empty needles, she grabbed his face as gently as the frenzied moment would allow. "Stay with me," she implored, and then she vaulted away, heading to the rear French doors which were smashed in some spots and ajar. Clint followed, trying to listen above the ringing in his ears, trying to move despite the pain in his leg.

Gunfire shredded the door the minute Natasha poked her head into the hallway. She immediately turned back, flush to the wall. Some of the soldiers left alive in the room were too stupid to escape and shot at her. Clint managed to pull himself together enough to shoot back. Both assailants fell, black arrows protruding from their bodies. Romanoff looked frustrated at the obstacles before them and pressed her hand to her ear. "Stark, you have an eye on Rogers?"

"Negative. Don't see the transponder either."

Clint glanced back at Romanoff to see her crouched and taking cover against the latest round of gunfire ricocheting down the hall. She palmed the smartphone that Bruce and Tony had rigged to track Steve's transponder, pulling it from where she'd hidden it along her right thigh high up under her dress. "I haven't been able to get a stable lock on it since last night. It must have been damaged." _Damaged. When he was electrocuted. _Clint swore softly and closed his eyes.

There was a distant boom, the sort that accompanied a fairly large explosion, and the room shook again. "Things are a bit of a mess," Stark shouted over the communications link. "Shit!" Another explosion vibrated everything, and then the sound of rockets whooshed loudly overhead. "It's like World War Three out here!"

"Try to keep the damage to the mansion to a minimum until we locate the Cap!" Romanoff said.

"I'm not the one shooting at it!" That could only mean one thing. The other buyers had brought their own reinforcements to make sure this turned out in their favor. It had been a rather predictable eventuality, even if they weren't strictly prepared for it. And stopping the world's villains from killing each other wasn't their objective. Clint didn't care if they damn well massacred each other, so long as Steve wasn't caught in their crossfire. And so long as nobody escaped with Captain America as their battle spoils.

Natasha sprung through the doorway then, moving astoundingly quickly and gracefully. Without any hesitation, she unloaded four rounds at Vargas' men at the other end of the corridor. She glanced back at Clint. "We need to find Rogers before Vargas completes the transaction."

"It's Starr," Clint said as he sprinted down the hall after her. The morphine was suddenly (and thankfully) working wonders, the pain quickly becoming distant enough so that he could function. "Starr won the auction."

Romanoff shook her head, taking cover again as another salvo of gunfire tore up the hallway. "Are you sure?" she demanded before twisting and returning fire. More of Vargas' men were flooding their path, probably to block any attempt to interfere with the exchange.

Clint had no direct evidence. But he knew it. This was no hunch, and rage and a mounting sense of foreboding rushed over him. "Yes," he answered. Then he rose from his crouch, pulling back powerfully on his bowstring and sending an arrow flying toward the group of soldiers trying to barricade the corridor. His shot struck a man in the soft flesh of his throat and he fell, gurgling. Before that one even hit the ground, the man beside him was dead.

"Stark, Elihas Starr won the Cap. Don't let him leave the grounds," Natasha alerted.

"You mean the loser who thinks he's smarter than me? Gladly."

They'd cleared the hallway of the soldiers and ran together, bounding over dead bodies and wreckage. A slew of black-clad soldiers met them as they emerged into an expensive living area. The women from the party screamed and fled as gunfire erupted across the room, destroying Vargas' expensive things. The soldiers blocked another hallway. Clint slid to his knees behind the meager cover of a plush leather couch while Natasha leapt over it. As she landed and rolled and engaged the group of men, Clint tapped a few buttons on the arch of his bow and nocked another arrow. In the split second the men stopped firing at him to adjust their aim to Black Widow, he appeared over the top of the couch and unleashed his shot. The arrow sunk deep into the chest of one of the men, punching through his Kevlar vest. It unleashed a slew of darts from its shaft upon impact, killing three others.

Natasha was dancing, easily manhandling the thugs with moves that were far too quick and accurate for them to counter. A swift kick to the head brought down her first mark. She whirled, a knife flashing and slashing. After dodging a punch meant for her midriff from a particularly large brute, she catapulted herself into a quick handstand, trapping the man's meaty throat in between her thighs and wrenching him head over heels. Once he lay prone and groaning on the floor, she broke his neck.

Clint jumped over the couch, staggering slightly as he landed but not enough to disrupt his aim as he took out another soldier. He sidestepped a man jumping at him, snatching the other's wrist as he pivoted before effortlessly snapping it. The melee continued for a few more seconds. Vargas' men fought with wild panic, while the two master assassins killed them with cold, silent ease. The soldiers easily outnumbered the Avengers four to one, but they were no match in close combat. Natasha finished off the last man with a vicious punch to the jaw, sending him reeling and then collapsing amongst his moaning buddies.

A sudden cacophony of rifles firing sent them scrambling for cover. Another company of soldiers appeared in the hallway they were trying to reach, assaulting them with a heavy barrage of bullets. Clint dove, struggling to get away, but there was no protection to be had. Most of the furniture had been destroyed. And when he heard the sound of something metallic hitting the marred tile floor and skittering towards them, he screamed, "Get down!"

The grenade exploded. They were both flung across the room by the force of the blast. Smoke and dust quickly filled the air, making it difficult to see and breathe. Clint groaned, his body aching miserably and the pain from his leg damn near unbearable, as he tried to sit up where he'd landed among the pieces of what used to be a coffee table. He clutched his pulsing thigh with shaking hands, struggling to suck in some deep breaths to appease his heaving lungs and pounding heart. "Alright?" Natasha called from somewhere; he couldn't see her. He couldn't get enough air to answer, lying in the wreckage helplessly. Black forms moved among the shadows and smoke. The soldiers were coming.

A horrific, ear-splitting roar resounded through the remains of the living room. The whole place shook beneath him, a steady _thud thud thud _that grew louder and more powerful with every strike. The wall to his left practically exploded. The Hulk was a racing blur of green as he thundered through, dragging part of what looked like a tank with him that he unceremoniously chucked at the soldiers pouring into the room from the hallway. They fell with screams of their own, and those that the improvised projectile missed were unfortunate enough to meet the wrath of a passing green fist. The Hulk charged through unabated, like a knife cutting through warm butter, smashing and destroying as he went. Then he burst through the other wall a second later and was gone.

Clint blinked, a little dazed, as the pain receded. "That's one way to do it," he muttered as he managed to get to his knees. Natasha was beside him in an instant, blood drooling from a cut along her cheek. She didn't bother to ask him if he was okay, but she did help him stand. He staggered against her for a moment longer than he would have liked, struggling to put all of his weight on his damaged leg. Then he gave up on pretending he wasn't hurt, fetched his bow, and limped after his partner.

They could search the entire estate, and they would if they had to, but they didn't have the time. Vargas and Egghead could be making the exchange as they frantically looked, and they might never find Steve. And if the situation outside was as chaotic as Stark had said, they couldn't rely on Tony or the SHIELD agents they'd brought in as support to find Rogers. Natasha knew this as acutely as Clint did, and she knelt beside one of the soldiers who was still alive after being tossed into the wall by the Hulk. She grabbed his vest and lifted his upper body so that his face was close to hers. Her expression was a picture of wrath. "Where did Vargas take Captain Rogers?" The man's face was tight with pain and shining in sweat. He looked terrified out of his mind. The Hulk had that effect on people. Romanoff grew more frustrated. "Where did he take Captain America?" she demanded again, her voice carrying an unspoken threat if the man didn't answer.

Brown eyes rolled white, and the soldier fainted. Natasha dropped him in disgust, leaving his broken body slouched against the wall. Then there was a soft beeping, and she pulled the smartphone from where she'd concealed it. Clint caught sight of the screen and saw a map quickly fill the display with a brush of Natasha's fingers, and a solitary blip appeared for a moment before winking away again. _Steve._ "This way," she announced.

They thundered down the hallway. The sounds of guns firing, of explosions and men screaming, filled the estate. Anyone who was in their path they took out, and it was a mixture of Vargas' men trying to stop them, guards and soldiers from the various buyers also trying to stop them, and people running in terror from the Hulk. Natasha led them on a winding path through the estate; Clint quickly realized they were heading to the rear of the mansion. Eventually they reached the kitchen (which was mostly intact) and were met with a panicked herd of cooks, servers, and others of Vargas' staff, who looked at them with horrified, desperate eyes. A few of Vargas' guards stood watch, obviously ordered to prevent the staff from escaping or causing trouble. The men caught sight of the two approaching Avengers and fired their weapons sloppily. Two quick shots from Romanoff killed those guarding the main and side entrances to the kitchen, and one arrow from Clint took down the man blocking the rear exit.

Frightened eyes regarded their would-be saviors, but there was no time to do anything but push through the huddled and horrified staff. These people were innocents, forced into employment physically or by their terrible economic circumstances; they were poor folk, used and abused yet again. Clint thought of the villagers that had saved them then, of Esperanza and her sister and the men who'd foolishly stayed behind during the ill-fated skirmish only to be slaughtered. As Black Widow ran ahead, he shouted, "Go on! Get out of here!" They remained still, cowering beneath counters and behind racks of pans and pots. They didn't understand, not what he said nor that he meant no harm. Frustrated, Clint grabbed his gun and fired into the ceiling with an awful, echoing clang. _"__¡__Deprisa!"_ That got them going. Screaming and crying, they fled, and Clint could only pray they would find safety, though it didn't seem likely in this bloody craziness. "Stark, there are civilians coming out!"

"Kinda busy out here!" came the exasperated response.

"Just do what you can!" Clint snapped back, jabbing the gun back to this belt and racing after Natasha through the huge kitchen and into the hall behind it. The corridor was dark, flooded with red lights and shadows. To the left there was an elevator. And to the right…

Clint could barely breathe for his fury. He clenched his hand tighter and tighter around his bow until he felt his knuckles crack. Romanoff looked back at him, her normally stoic and cold eyes hot with anger and hatred. She turned away from the freezers and wordlessly ran back. "God damn it," Clint whispered, following her away from the dead end and back through the kitchen, sprinting through the other exit. They ran past pantries and other storage areas before exploding out into a loading bay.

There was Vargas. He was enraged, screaming at his men who were attempting to unload weapons from one of the trucks they'd been packing earlier. A dozen or so of his thugs were there, feeding rocket launchers and assault rifles out to the soldiers in the yard. Outside there was chaos; smoke drifted across Vargas' once beautiful and pristine grounds. A few of the auxiliary buildings were ablaze. The crackle of gunfire and the boom of much larger weapons firing filled the evening air, as well as the roar of the Hulk. Vargas was trying to coordinate some sort of offense or defense or escape (it wasn't obvious what he hoped to accomplish). And it didn't matter. It _wouldn't_ matter.

The two Avengers attacked without anything more than a single shared glance of understanding. Natasha leapt over the railing and down into the bay, taking the men by complete surprise as she ran into the crowd. Clint bounded down the steps two at a time, shooting with deadly precision. Vargas' men fell. Arrows pierced Kevlar and struck chests and hearts and lungs. Arrows bit into legs and backs and heads. Arrows exploded, detonated by a touch of his fingers to his bow. These monsters were only men, and he could kill men. He specialized in killing men.

But he had eyes for only one man.

Natasha stripped a grenade from the vest of the man she was currently holding, before she pulled the pin on another explosive still strapped to him. A fierce kick sent him tumbling back into his comrades outside the loading bay. The explosion was loud and gruesome. She flicked the pin from the stolen grenade and casually tossed it into the truck. Men scrambled away as the vehicle erupted in a fire ball. Finally the remainder of Vargas' men decided what the drug lord was paying them was no longer worth it, and they ran for their lives into the battle outside.

And Vargas himself, disheveled and covered in soot from the raging fire inside his loading bay, made to flee like a goddamn coward.

But he never got the chance. A black arrow embedded itself into his shoulder. The man howled, his face clenched in pain, as the power of the shot rammed him back into the wall behind him. The arrow drove into the cement, pinning him. Before he could even begin to struggle, another arrow landed in his other shoulder. There was no way he could escape now.

Clint emerged from the fire and smoke, Natasha beside him. His eyes were wild, the brilliant orange and yellow of the flames reflecting in his gray irises as the blaze roared behind them. Rage stripped Clint of every other feeling, vengeance driving every other thought from his mind. The pain was gone. The fear and guilt and grief. All gone, scorched away. Every muscle in his body was tense, and his heart thundered in his chest, straining against his sternum, as he stalked closer. Then he grabbed the helpless drug lord by the throat and squeezed as hard as he could. "Where the hell is Rogers?" he demanded.

Vargas was terrified as Clint strangled him. "Starr…" he gasped, fighting to answer despite his constricted airway. "Starr took him! He just took him! Never paid me! Never paid!"

"Where?" Clint hissed. "Where?"

"Outside!" Vargas whimpered, his eyes shining in tears and fear. "Please! Don't kill me!"

Clint's hand clenched tighter, his fingers pressing harder and harder into the vulnerable flesh of Vargas' throat. Natasha stood behind him, her gun trained at the drug lord's quivering form but otherwise not interfering. She wouldn't stop him. Nobody could stop him. If he wanted to, he could destroy this man. He very much wanted to. "Why shouldn't I?" Clint snarled. "You murdered innocents. Tortured and tried to sell my friend. And you left me to die like I was nothing."

Vargas' face crumpled in confusion. "What? Who…?"

It really shouldn't have, but somehow that eased his rage. Somehow, knowing that he'd beaten Vargas, that the self-proclaimed mastermind had never seen him coming, not before and not now, was enough. "You don't know me?" Clint gave a small, rueful chuckle. "Let me enlighten you." Vargas' eyes went wide in abject terror, everything else but his utter fear stripped away. The strength. The arrogance. The smarts and the wealth and the power. In the end, he was just a man, too.

Clint smiled. "I'm the guy who torched your base, asshole." Then he rammed Vargas' head into the wall behind him. The drug lord slumped, unconscious.

There was no more time to spare. Clint limped to the edge of the loading dock, staring into the disaster of a situation outside. Smoke billowed from innumerable fires; it looked like half the estate was burning or otherwise destroyed. Vargas' remaining men and soldiers he didn't recognize were battling it out, guns crackling and spitting bullets across the yard. He saw Stark land a hundred feet away, and then an RPG was launched at him and Iron Man shot upward again, trying to dodge the missile. Numerous helicopters dominated the scene. Some were reduced to mangled and burning wreckage on the ground. A few were hovering and circling, owned by Vargas or the other buyers. It was a regular motley collection of technology from across the world as the madmen and monsters who'd so foolishly thought they could ever muster toleration and peacefully coexist, even for something so simple as a dinner party and a business proposition, tried to annihilate each other.

But three choppers, obviously modified and improved beyond what was typical, were on the ground a few dozen feet ahead. They were sleek, huge and black and obviously expensive. They were already loaded, their wing-mounted rotors picking up speed as they prepared for lift-off. Gun turrets mounted to the sides of the helicopters were rotating, spraying bullets at anything and everything around them. It was Egghead. Clint knew it.

And Egghead had Steve.

"Stark, you got a visual on Rogers? Stark!" Romanoff asked sharply, her gaze wildly devouring the smoky, fiery chaos before them in search of their lost captain.

Iron Man flew past in a show of glinting gold and red. Gunfire and missiles pursued him, some from the ground forces but most originating from the dogfight occurring above them. "I've got nothing!" he responded, his tone apologetic. "And this party seriously sucks. I've thrown better parties in my sleep. What the hell do we do?" He fired back at the mess of weapons chasing him and took out a few, but there were so many hostiles in the air it hardly mattered.

There was that beeping again. God, could they be so fortunate? Natasha pulled the smartphone out, and she and Clint looked at the map winking to life, not daring to breathe. Not daring to hope. Everything seemed to slow to a miserable crawl as they waited, staring at the screen. Then there was a blip. Short-lived. Hardly more than a flash.

Clint looked up. It was the middle helicopter.

He took off without thinking, bounding through the blazing wreckage of the truck, running across the yard and through the crossfire. He could have been shot, but he didn't care. His leg could have crumpled from the strain of his frantic sprint, but he didn't care. He should have been killed for his stupidity, this moment and a thousand before it, but _he didn't care_. All he knew was he needed to get aboard that chopper.

"Barton just went out!" He heard Natasha's fearful voice cut over the intercom. "_Bozhe moy._ He just ran out there!"

The trio of sleek birds was hovering off the ground, and then they started to rise much faster than normal helicopters could. Their propulsion systems seemed augmented by jet engines in some way to manifest faster lift. The Hulk suddenly jumped from behind him and to his right, launching through the air. He grabbed the tail of the left most aircraft, snapping it off with a horrific bang. The chopper spun out of control and struck the ground. But the other two continued upward, faster and faster.

Clint skidded to a stop below the middle one, knowing he had only one shot at this. Literally.

His fingers tapped his bow, and he grabbed an arrow from his quiver and set it against his bowstring. He pulled back as hard as he could. And he found that calm place again. Time slowed. Pain fell away. He breathed deeply. And he let it loose.

The arrow flew true and sunk into the metal plating in the belly of the helicopter. The cable between the arrowhead and his bow immediately went taut. He hung on with all his strength as he was yanked upward, above the fire and fighting, and into the sky. He screamed in agony but refused to let go, kicking wildly against nothing as he tried to reinforce his slipping hands.

And the helicopter raced away with him dangling beneath it.

* * *

_¡__Deprisa! __–_ Hurry!

_Bozhe moy – _My God_._


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Wow! I really appreciate all your support and excitement. Thanks so much! Here we go with the final battle… Hold on to your butts :-D.

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**16**

This had been a really bad idea.

That was the fleeting thought that crossed Clint's mind as he desperately hung on to the line tethering him to the bottom of Egghead's helicopter as it wove through a veritable firefight high above the jungle. A hell of a lot of good it did him now.

"Barton!" Stark's voice roared over the communicator in his ear. "What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself? Because I have to tell you, there are easier ways!"

The helicopter banked sharply to the left, and Clint could only hold tight as he was whipped wildly to the side. A missile shot past him with a deafening rush of air. Looking down only for a second was too much to bear. The ground was spinning nauseatingly, a blur of smoke and green, and his stomach clenched so hard he nearly lost it. His throat burned and his heart hammered against his ribs and the only coherent signal leaving his brain was one to his hands that screamed _don't let go._

Eventually he managed to secure his grip on his bow enough to free an index finger, which he promptly pressed into a button on the arch that would alert the arrowhead to retract the line. It did, albeit somewhat slower than usual given the tremendous forces unpredictably throwing his weight around. Still, he was steadily moving upward (rather than downward). There was a flurry of frantic shouts over the communications line.

"Shit! Damn it, _everybody_ is going after them!" Stark shouted, and Clint caught a wink of red and gold behind him as he haplessly spun.

"This is Hill. Starr's aircraft has Rogers aboard. Repeat: Starr has Rogers. Protect that chopper!"

"Barton, are you alright?" That was Natasha, and the fear and worry in her voice was uncharacteristically clear. "Clint, respond! Are you alright?"

"Alright," he gasped through gritted teeth. "Busy!" That was all he could manage over the roar of air flying by him and gunfire. _Shit!_ Egghead's other chopper had noticed him. The outside turret rotated before spraying bullets in his direction. He was helpless, swinging wildly with nothing to defend himself, and he could only close his eyes and pray that luck smiled on him and spared him from being shot. The few seconds it took for the line to retract enough so that he no longer presented a viable target were seemingly infinite, but eventually he was lifted close to the belly of the aircraft. The gunfire ceased after pounding momentarily into the hull, as there was no way they could safely shoot at him now without risking hitting Egghead's chopper.

As he hung there, his hands and arms aching for having supported all his weight these last few harrowing minutes, he finally stopped moving so violently and got a good look behind him. Stark was unfortunately right. There were at least a dozen aircraft in pursuit of Egghead. Some were older models of helicopters, relics from the days of the Soviet Union that could barely keep up in this maniacal high-speed chase, but they had no qualms about shooting at everything they could. Faster, more agile choppers and planes followed as well, also unleashing their complement of weapons at any target close enough. Clint spotted Vargas' helicopters, desperately pursuing their stolen property. Egghead's helicopter was climbing, hoping to outrun the mess behind them. It looked like a goddamn free for all.

"Hawkeye, can you get in there?" Natasha asked.

Clint grunted, his fingers desperate to release their hold. The pain was becoming excruciating. "Gonna try," he ground out, glancing around frantically and trying to figure out how the hell he was going to do it. He only knew he needed to do something fast, because he couldn't hold on much longer. Not to mention the higher Egghead ordered his chopper, the less air there would be, and even the beginnings of hypoxia would mean his death.

He glanced around quickly and saw there were no access points to the underside of chopper that he could reach. But the left landing gear hadn't retracted. He immediately noticed why; a few bullets had punctured the casing of the components above the wheel. The gear was a few feet from the left side of the chopper, and if he remembered correctly, not far beneath the door. If he could swing over there…

He didn't have time to consider the merits of this plan. Egghead's chopper banked sharply to the right, sending his stomach launching into his throat as his body swung upward and slammed into the unforgiving surface of the hull. At first his rattled mind assumed it was to avoid some enemy fire. Then he saw a black blur to the left again and those damn turrets spinning to take aim. They were trying to expose him. "Need some help!"

"Stark, get that other chopper out of the sky!"

"On it," came Iron Man's quick reply. Clint scrambled uselessly, unable to do much but cling to his bow, as the pilots of the chopper jostled the aircraft violently and chaotically from side to side, trying to knock him loose. "Hang on, Hawkeye." _Not much choice!_ The world unexpectedly tipped again and Clint was tossed to his right, the line unraveling from the arrowhead a few feet and the arrowhead nearly yanking loose from the hull plating. Panicked, Clint reached for something to grab, sacrificing one hand on his bow to search the smooth surface underneath the helicopter, but there was nothing. And when the helicopter banked again, the arrow came loose.

Clint yelped, trying to angle his body as he fell, moving without thinking. He slammed into the landing gear, his belly ramming into the joint between the wheel and the damaged machinery. The breath rushed from his lungs, his limp fingers dropping his bow and instinctively grasping whatever he could. The pain and shock was overwhelming, so much so that his throttled mind barely even registered that he hadn't fallen to his death. The thundering _clank clank clank_ of bullets striking metal resounded in his ears, and he tried to hide as much as he could, but it was hopeless. He was a sitting duck.

The next barrage of gunfire never reached him, however. Clint opened eyes he had squeezed shut to see red and gold as Iron Man shot up in front of him, and the bullets bounced uselessly off the armor. Stark raised his right hand at the other of Egghead's helicopters that had been tormenting him. A bolt of white light shot from his palm and struck the chopper. Its right engine exploded, and it veered away in an uncontrolled arc, venting smoke and flame.

Clint couldn't help but gasp in relief, his chest heaving and his heart thundering. Iron Man turned as he flew alongside him. "Need a lift, birdy?" Stark asked, grabbing Clint's arm tightly and pulling him from the malfunctioning landing gear. Clint held tight to Iron Man, wrapping his trembling arms around Stark's waist as the other man grasped him under the arms and pulled him away.

"Just get me up there!" Clint demanded over the roar of the air around them.

"Aye, aye," Tony responded, descending briefly to clear the underside of the rapidly climbing helicopter. He activated the thrusters in his boots, and Clint tried not to look down – tried not to be sick – as the sky spun. _Concentrate,_ came the voice of reason in his mind. _Get up there. Get on board._ Stark twisted, dodging missiles and gunfire. Chaos raged all around them; it was a miracle Egghead's escape attempt had thus far been at all successful with the amount of enraged, violent pursuit the other buyers were giving. Clint caught a glimpse of the SHIELD quinjet, large and sleek and powerful, among the other aircraft. It was ardently trying to keep Egghead's chopper in the sky, firing at anyone who dared to come too close. Some other helicopter exploded furiously behind them, and Clint winced as the shock wave battered them, but Stark carried on like it was nothing and came to fly alongside to the left door of Egghead's aircraft. "Let's get the Cap," Stark declared.

The left wing of the aircraft extended from its top, the embedded rotors spinning rapidly. Some sort of jet engine ignited as well, adding to the chopper's speed. Clint knew where they were headed. Northeast. The ocean. Stark ducked underneath the apparatus as close to the chopper as could, trying to stay outside the range of the turret for as long as possible. Eventually it caught sight of them and rotated, but before it could unleash even its first round Stark had taken it out with a small missile launched from his shoulder. Then he propelled down the length of the aircraft closer to the door. "Here!" He shoved Clint up against the side of the chopper. Clint immediately grabbed a metal handle next to the tightly sealed portal and braced his feet on the step into the chopper. Once he was safe, Stark pulled away and rolled onto his side. "Stay back!" He shot two red, laser beams from his hands and began cutting at the locking mechanism.

For a few long seconds he worked, and all the while Clint struggled to hang on. His leg was burning in stifling pain, and he could hardly breathe the air was so thin. His head was pounding, and his brain felt swollen. Every inch of him hurt. "Come on!" he urged Stark, seeing the battle press closer and closer. Another missile whizzed by them, and the chopper dodged abruptly, pulling Clint with it and Iron Man's beams came dangerously close to slicing Clint's hands. Stark immediately compensated, effortlessly directing one hand to shoot at the now wayward missile. "Come on! _Come on!_"

"Patience," Stark snarled.

"Iron Man, what's your status?" Hill demanded over the communications link. "We need you back here!"

The lock was finally disabled, and Iron Man landed on the rail where Clint was barely clinging to the side of the chopper. He grabbed the door and pulled it open like it was a can of soda. The metal crumpled and peeled away. "Panties in a twist much? I'm working – " Tony's voice rapidly cut out as _something_ flew out of the chopper and exploded against his chest. Clint howled, ripping his face away from the scorching heat, and his feet slipped from the rail. Panic doused him in icy waves. He fell, his shoulder nearly ripping from its socket and his grip almost failing him. He saw Iron Man spiral away in a show of smoke and fire, and then another RPG blew out the remains of the chopper's door. It screamed forth faster than Clint's panicked eyes could follow, trailing the glimmer of gold and red that emerged from the clouds and smoke. Iron Man rocketed away, the RPG following him, and then the second chopper returned, severely damaged but not destroyed, shooting at him as well.

But Clint couldn't watch. He swung his body around, trying desperately to will his already abused and weakened fingers not to let go, as he reached for something to better secure his grip. His straining, shaking hand snatched a mangled piece of what he thought was door, tightening on the sharp surface. Ignoring the hurt, he gritted his teeth, his lips pulled back in a strained snarl, as he pulled himself up. The moments he spent struggling were hellish, but he finally lifted himself high enough to get his knee back on the rail.

And not a moment too soon. A man poked his head out the hole in the side of the chopper, his Uzi sweeping the small area. Clint moved without thinking, snatching the gun and yanking the unsuspecting soldier out. The man screamed as he tumbled away. More gunfire immediately slammed into the ragged edges of where the door once had been, and Clint pulled back, pressing himself to the outside of the aircraft. He pulled his handgun. A handgun, against a likely arsenal of automatic weapons and who knew how many soldiers.

"Stark! Stark, respond! Status!" Natasha demanded.

Clint caught a glimpse of the billionaire as Iron Man cut through the clouds, a swarm of missiles racing after him. He launched chaff, which did deflect a few of the projectiles, but most maintained their unwavering pursuit. "Bringing it back!" Iron Man called, and when he swooped past, Clint ducked. The second chopper rained fire on Stark, but quite a large percentage of the salvo was misdirected at Egghead's own aircraft. In the process, the soldiers inside ceased fire and took cover. Clint drew a deep breath, knowing this would likely be his only chance to get inside and he would need to move very fast. He prayed his bruised body and wounded leg would be up to the challenge.

The minute Tony streaked over and away, drawing the other chopper's fire with him, Clint launched himself through the hole.

He was met with three soldiers, and he tackled one instantly (and not quite intentionally). They went down roughly, the man collapsing under his weight with a surprised grunt. Clint put all his momentum into slamming the other's head into the floor, which thankfully rendered him rather effectively unconscious. Clint knew his surprise ambush would only afford him a second (maybe two) of advantage, so he immediately leaned up and without any hesitation shot another of the guards. The man fell, dead.

The third drew a knife and launched himself toward their unwanted intruder, but Clint was faster, side-stepping the strike. The archer stumbled, his leg not at all supporting the sort of fast footwork he desired, and brought his gun to bear. The man batted the weapon away and then rapidly swung at him with a clenched fist. Clint leaned back, ducking to avoid the punch, and then the knife screamed through the air, a deadly silver streak. The sharp tip barely missed the soft flesh of his throat as he lurched backward, and then he was slammed into the wall. Pain erupted down the side of his head and his ear as he was decked, and he barely caught the man's knife as it descended downward toward his chest. They struggled for a moment, Clint digging his shoes into the floor as he struggled to push the other man back. The knife shook as they both fought for dominance, but Clint eventually won. He shoved Egghead's bodyguard back, but his foe retaliated with a swift slash that cut into Clint's breast. But his next strike was fueled by over-confidence, and Clint used the other's weight to his disadvantage. He dodged, grabbing the man's arm and swinging him into the bulkhead. It was a simple matter, then, of pinning him there and breaking his neck.

Clint staggered away, panting and wincing as he examined the wound to his chest. It was superficial, but he was bleeding like a stuck pig. Grimacing, he crouched and gathered up his handgun and the knife. The helicopter was divided into three sections: a cockpit, which was enclosed by a sliding door, this middle area, and a larger rear compartment where he supposed Egghead was keeping Steve. He briskly moved over to the bulkhead near the door that led to the rear and ducked to avoid being seen through the glass window. He pressed his back flush to the wall and desperately tried to think. "I'm in," he whispered into his communications link.

"… Barton… fire… copy?"

Clint pressed his hand to his ear. "I didn't copy. Can you repeat?"

"… We're under fire… Rogers – " And then the line went dead. His fingers came away bloody. Obviously his communicator had been damaged when he'd been punched and knocked into the wall. He closed his eyes in dismay but quickly gathered his composure because he needed to act and act quickly.

Drawing a few deep breaths, he crossed the short distance to the cockpit and slammed his palm against the control panel to open the door, darting his eyes about the now empty area. The control panel buzzed obstinately, refusing to open. "Shit," he whispered. His hasty plan to get inside and force the pilots to land the helicopter had just been quite effectively thwarted. And he didn't have a chance to think of anything else, as the door behind him rapidly slid open with a hiss. Clint dove, hearing the guns fire. Bullets ricocheted off the metallic flooring, bouncing to the walls and ceiling. He landed roughly on his side and angled around, unloading the remaining rounds in the clip of his gun as another soldier stepped into the compartment. The man went down, hit in the chest, but there were two more behind him.

Clint's gun was empty, and they wasted no time, raising their Uzis and spraying bullets at him. Clint scrambled away, leaping across the small area back toward the gaping hole in the chopper's side, rolling when he landed. He twisted and threw the knife. The blade sunk deeply into the stomach of one of the men. The one behind him kicked his fallen comrade aside, his face taut with rage as he charged toward Clint. Clint leapt at him, tackling him about the legs before he had a chance to fire his gun again. They both fell, legs and arms tangled, and the Uzi skittered away under one of the benches. Egghead's thug was significantly bigger than he was, and he wasn't at all disabled or surprised. He rolled immediately, climbing to his feet and balling his gigantic hands in Clint's stained and ripped dress shirt. The brute yanked Clint's slighter form up and unceremoniously threw him into the bulkhead. Clint gasped as he collided roughly with the unforgiving metal, crumpling and sliding down onto a bench. He slipped to the floor and tried to get up on his hands and knees, but his damn leg wouldn't have it.

The thug was across the compartment in a breath, grabbing Clint by his hair and yanking him upward. Clint groaned, dazed and pained. He never had a chance to protect himself as a fist rammed into his midriff. Then he was tossed again, this time toward the ragged hole where the door to the chopper had been. The wind grabbed him and dragged him as he hit the floor and was sucked closer and closer to the jagged end. The man launched himself on top of him, a maniacal glint filling ugly blue eyes, as he grabbed Clint's head alongside his temples and smashed it cruelly down. Blackness danced along the edges of Clint's blurry vision, and he barely noticed as hands closed around his neck and shoved him further toward the hole. The wind yanked at his hair, tore tears from his eyes, as he was pushed out of the chopper. The fingers around his throat tightened and tightened, and he couldn't breathe. His lungs strained and his heart thundered and he was hanging out of a helicopter thousands and thousands of feet above the ground and he _couldn't breathe_.

He flailed, his arm reaching above and behind him on its own because all cognizant thought had utterly fled. His fingers wrapped around something long and thin and he yanked it free with his last burst of energy. He drove the arrow into the man's throat, and he coughed and gagged as blood filled his mouth. Immediately the choking hands loosened, and Clint pushed the dead weight off his chest. The body tumbled out of the helicopter. Gasping, Clint rolled onto his belly and tried to get away from the dangerous edge, but he couldn't. His scattered brain was agonizingly slow to realize why, and he swallowed his nausea and fumbled with the straps of his quiver that had somehow become entangled in the sharp edges of the destroyed floor. Finally his shaking fingers managed to unfasten the buckle, and he struggled free. Panting, he strained to crawl away from the perilous edge. Then he collapsed for a moment, fighting to calm his racing heart and regain control over his dazed faculties. He spat blood from his mouth and scrambled deeper back inside.

The helicopter tipped wildly, but Clint struggled to his feet. Everything shook and vibrated as something close exploded outside. Clint blinked sweat away as he made his way around the bodies of the men he'd killed. He fished under the bench for the Uzi. After pulling the gun free, he painfully limped into the back compartment.

"Ah, Agent Barton," Egghead said. The small man stood next to Steve, who was kneeling on the floor. Rogers was still shivering wildly, his hands bound in front of him. There were chains around his arms and around his thighs and linked together to a harness on the floor. The sack still covered his head. Two men stood on either side of Steve, their handguns aimed directly at him. Egghead grinned, but it was tense and humorless. "So good of you to get here. Now would you kindly tell SHIELD to let us go?"

Clint swallowed the coppery taste of blood, glancing from Steve's hunched, shaking body to the guns so close to his head to Egghead's smirk. "We're not the ones shooting at you," he said, tightening his grip on his own gun. "People tend to get angry when you steal something that's not yours. A man of your intellect should know that."

"Something? Not someone? Why, Agent Barton, I could have sworn you had a heart under all that ice," Egghead answered. "Your brother thought so. But, then, he was something of a gullible idiot, wasn't he? Always thinking he was right even when he was so pathetically wrong. Like he did when he thought he could eliminate me with your help."

"Let Rogers go," Clint warned, ignoring Egghead's bait even as it stoked his rage. Sweat stung his eyes, and everything seemed to tip as he swayed wearily. But he didn't fall. He _refused_ to fall. "You're not getting away. So surrender now."

Egghead laughed at him like he was an idiot. "That would defeat the purpose," he declared matter-of-factly.

"Do you honestly think you're gonna get away with Captain America? You'll have the Avengers and SHIELD, not to mention the United States, chasing you every step of the way. _Let him go._"

Egghead glanced toward the two men flanking Steve, and they stepped closer, pressing their guns dangerously close to Steve's helpless form. At this range, super soldier serum or no, a gunshot to the head would be fatal. Clint grunted, plastering a smug smirk on his face and trying to appear unfazed and nonchalant. Normally it wasn't so hard; he'd faced situations like this in the past. But this time he could barely manage it. "I thought you'd know better, Starr. Killing him _does_ defeat your purpose," Clint said haughtily. "You went through all this trouble. You won't do it."

"Are you so confident, Agent Barton? Maybe you've been hit in the head one too many times. You don't look well." Egghead smiled, too, and Clint's fury built and built within him. "I can be something of a petty man. Perhaps if I can't have the super soldier serum, no one should," Egghead said. "Now I want SHIELD to protect us. I know your helicarrier is off the coast, armed to the teeth with enough weapons to destroy a small country. I want an escort. I want Stark to personally see us out across the Atlantic."

Clint tried to quell his anger, tried to quiet his fear, because he knew Egghead was right. He couldn't risk Steve's life. He knew nothing about Egghead other than that the man was smart and ruthless. Smart enough to have lured Barney into a trap. Ruthless enough to have murdered him right in front of his younger brother. But Barney had been so damn sure that they could take out Egghead, _so goddamn sure_, and he was never wrong. Clint had gone into Mumbai, angry and hurt and guns blazing, and it had cost him the only family he'd ever had. He wasn't going to let that happen to Steve.

"Alright," he finally said, lowering his gun. He crouched as well as he could with his leg and set the Uzi to the floor. He nudged it away with his foot. "I need a radio."

"Good decision, Agent Barton. I'm glad someone in your family is capable of them." Egghead smiled arrogantly. He gestured to one of his remaining men. "Take him to the front."

Suddenly the bulkhead behind Egghead exploded. Half of the tail of the aircraft was _gone_, an open wound that was filled with smoke and fire and blue sky. Clint didn't know what the hell was happening, but he knew he couldn't let the chance pass. He tackled the man who'd come forward, wrestling with him for his handgun. The weapon discharged as they struggled, and the bullet flew upward into the ceiling and struck some sort of pipe of pressurized gas. Cold mist rushed over them. Clint kneed the man in the abdomen. Behind them, Egghead had grabbed the Uzi and was unloading it with reckless abandon and very poor aim. The man he was fighting fell, shot by his own boss, and Clint dove as well, yanking the handgun from limp fingers. A bullet grazed his ribs and he yelped, his vision blurring. Desperately Clint tried to aim for the other guard, but it was impossible to see.

Then the man came charging from the miasma of smoke and compressed air. His face was a hideous mess of blood, and he shot wildly at Clint. Holding his damaged chest, Clint scrambled away, trying to seek cover from the chaotic barrage. The chopper dipped wildly, veritably falling from the sky, and the man stumbled as he was flung forward. Clint grabbed him, shoving him into the wall until his head cracked. The tumbling of the helicopter continued for another horrific moment before it leveled off. Then everything rocked wildly again. Clint cried out, flung to the side of the compartment and alarms began to frantically and shrilly wail. He landed on his right leg, and that was it. The fiery agony was unbearable, and he lay there, clutching his thigh and fighting for even a bit of breath.

The mad scientist still stood with the Uzi jabbed into Steve's back. "Get up there and get this under control!" Egghead demanded to Clint. "Get them off of us!" Sweat coated his white face, and his eyes were wild with terror and desperation. When Clint didn't (couldn't) move, he snarled in frustration and irritation and stalked across the debris littered floor. "Get up!" he roared. "Go!"

Clint couldn't even begin to stand, let alone walk. Not now. He heard fire, the helicopter crumpling and moaning and shrieking with the damage done to it. But he didn't care. He wasn't going to let Egghead win. He pulled his gun up and pointed it at the villain, despite the Uzi leveled at his chest. "Shoot me if you want," he gasped, fighting to lift himself enough to hold his aim steady and true. "But you're _not_ getting away."

The next moment dragged by so slowly, considering the desperation of the situation, the danger that was facing them. The helicopter was shuddering and shaking and falling apart all around them. At any second, another missile from their pursuers could strike, and that would undoubtedly mean the end. But Clint never lowered his glare, never faltered despite the pain, never let his arm shake. He thought of Loki, of Barney, of the warden and the kid with the red shoes, and his finger twitched and ached and he yearned to pull the trigger. He could murder the bastard and be done with all the hell he'd caused.

But he never did.

There was a loud rattle, and a blur of pale skin and strong muscles moved swiftly behind Egghead. Steve charged forward, snapping the restraints that bound his arms to his sides and him to the floor. He blindly flung his considerable weight forward and tackled Egghead. The villain shrieked, yanking uncaringly on the trigger of the Uzi, and bullets flew everywhere. Steve could have likely crushed the little man, but he staggered and fell back, shot in the side. Clint howled in rage and sprung forward with the last of his strength, yanking on the trigger of his own gun. The bullet shot from the barrel and slammed into Egghead's shoulder. The Uzi was flung up, peppering the ceiling with a loud cacophony of metal biting into metal. Then he tripped over Steve's prone body and fell.

With a scream, he tumbled out the back of the chopper and into the sky.

Just like that, Egghead was gone.

Over the rush of his blood pounding and the wind whipping through the damaged fuselage, Clint fought to catch his breath. He sagged to the floor, exhausted and hurt and beyond any coherent thought. He slipped away unwittingly, his eyes closing momentarily against the pain and relief that assailed him, and he wondered if it would be okay to just give up. Everything ached so miserably, and he was so destroyed, so ripped and pummeled and battered. However, a low moan that seemed incredibly loud given the roar of sound pierced his momentary lethargy, and he opened his eyes.

"Steve," he called, crawling across the short distance between them. Fresh blood covered his pant leg, and red had stained his gray dress shirt a hideous lilac from his new wounds. But he didn't care about his own injuries, spotting blood coating Steve's side from where he lay among glass and mangled metal and burned wreckage. "Steve!"

Finally he dragged himself over to his fallen friend. He grasped Steve's bruised arm, felt the ice of his skin and the shaking of his body, and then pulled the sack from his head. Steve's eyes were clenched shut beneath. "Steve, it's Clint," he said desperately, dragging himself over the soldier's chest and trying to rouse him. "Steve!"

Blue eyes suddenly shot open, and the other man gave a horrified cry. He jerked away, bringing his bound hands up to try and shove back what to his mind could only be a ghost. "It's me," Clint soothed. "I'm okay." There didn't seem to be any recognition in Steve's face for a terrifyingly long second. Clint reached a filthy, bloody hand over to pull the gag from his friend's mouth. "Steve?"

"Clint?" Steve whispered.

Clint couldn't help but offer a weary, worn smile. "Yeah. I'm okay. Are you okay?"

Steve didn't answer at first, struggling away from the trauma and delirium. His hazy eyes seemed unable to focus. "I thought… I thought you were dead," he whispered, and his grief-stricken voice shook with the very depths of anguish.

"I'm not," Clint answered. "But we both will be if we don't get out of here. Can you stand?"

The dazed soldier managed something of a nod. He braced his bound, burned hands on the floor and pushed himself up with a wince, Clint guiding him as best he could. Blood was pouring from his side, and he stumbled, pressing his palms to the wound. The chopper shuddered again, and Clint glanced around desperately. "We need to get to the cockpit. Come on."

Together the two of them staggered forward through the damaged aircraft. Clint reached the stubbornly locked door to the cockpit and the handprint identifier that had rejected him before. He grabbed the palm of one of the dead men, and with Steve's lethargic, fumbling aid, they managed to press it to the control panel. The door slid open to reveal two empty seats.

"Well," Clint said, surprised. "At least we don't have to kill anyone else." He stumbled inside, unable to put any weight on his leg, and slid clumsily into the pilot's seat. Frantically he glanced at the console before him. The autopilot was engaged, expertly flying the aircraft faster and faster toward the Atlantic. But that was about the only good thing. There was a fire in the engine on the left side. Cabin stability was greatly compromised. They were leaking fuel. And radar was indicating there were still a couple of hostiles following them.

Steve looked pale and lost. "Can you fly this?" he hoarsely asked.

Familiarity with the controls wasn't the problem. He grabbed the flight stick and experimentally tried to pull it to the left, but it wouldn't budge. His hopes plummeted. "No. We have to get off somehow." He searched the panel quickly, ignoring the debilitating rise of his panic, and found the radio. He pressed the button and shouted, "This is Barton! Stark, Romanoff, answer me!"

For a miserable moment, there was only static responding. "Somebody, please come in! We're in trouble!"

"Barton, this is Romanoff!" The sound of Natasha's voice had never been so beautiful. "What's your situation?"

"Egghead's dead. I have Rogers with me. But we need some help here. I can't control the helicopter," he explained. He tried again to adjust their course, but nothing was responding. The damn thing was shot to hell.

"Copy. Iron Man is inbound."

"There's no time!" Clint responded miserably, and then new alarms began to cry and red lights flashed all over. The engines were losing power. The helicopter plummeted. They barely hung on, Clint desperately trying to do something – anything – to stop their violent descent. But the damage was too severe. They were going down!

Abruptly their drop stabilized. Metal screamed as it collapsed and was dented. Clint jolted, slamming painfully into his seat, Steve nearly tumbling into his back. There was a strained cry over the communications link. "I can keep it steady!" Stark gasped. "Get off! _Now!_"

They didn't need to be told twice. Together the two of them pushed their way, limping and fighting for every step, back into the main compartment. They rushed to the hole in the side of the chopper and looked down. They were still hundreds of feet above the ground, flying over forest and plains _way_ too fast. "God," Clint moaned. "Shit. What the hell do we do?"

The sound of a large aircraft approaching sent them both to the floor, Clint yanking Steve down with him to protect him from whatever was coming to finish the job of taking them out. But it was the quinjet, flying sideways with its engines turned to manage such a feat, and the rear of the aircraft opened. There Romanoff and Banner, returned to his normal self, and a slew of SHIELD agents were waiting and ready. The pilots brought the jet as close as they could to the rapidly destabilizing helicopter, but there was still a significant gap between where Steve and Clint stood and salvation. More than twenty feet. And they needed to jump.

There was no way that Clint could do that.

The chopper began to descend again, not as violently as before, and gunfire raked over the other side of the fuselage, shattering the windows and causing more destruction. Steve was still shaking, obviously struggling to keep himself grounded, but his freezing hands seemed large and very strong as he grabbed Clint. "I'll throw you," he swore.

"Are you crazy?" Clint demanded, eyeing the distance warily. "You'll never make it!"

"I'm not interested in crashing with you again!" Steve shouted. There was no time to debate it. Smoke was filling the compartment. They only had a few seconds, and they knew it. If jumping hadn't been such a terrifying prospect, Clint might have laughed at the wicked, vicious irony of it all. Steve drew a deep breath and caught the eyes of Bruce and Natasha; they understood what he was about to do. Without further preamble, Captain America tossed Hawkeye through the air.

As he soared through the clouds and smoke, Clint thought this was going to be it. This was how he would die.

But then he slammed into the sloping ramp of the quinjet. Pain rendered him utterly incapable of anything, not thought or emotion or even the basic instinct of grabbing something to stop his leaden body from sliding down to its death. Thankfully, Natasha was there, tethered to the jet by a long black harness, and she grabbed his hands. "I have you!" she screamed, desperation twisting her face. "Hold on! I have you!"

Another set of hands grabbed hers. Banner pulled as hard as he could, and together they hauled Clint up the ramp and into the jet. He collapsed, gasping frantically, before turning to look back at Steve. An explosion ahead blasted both the dying helicopter and the quinjet, and the distance grew even wider. "Steve!" screamed Bruce across the roar of the wind. "Jump!"

Steve made to do so. But a missile from one of the other helicopters yet chasing them struck the other wing of Egghead's aircraft, ripping it clean away. A spray of bullets from the quinjet's mini-gun attacked the straggler, and it retreated. But the damage had been done. _No,_ Clint thought in panic as he helplessly watched Egghead's helicopter begin to spin out of control. It trailed a steady stream of thick, black smoke as it turned wildly, making it impossible to get a look at its lone occupant. Iron Man was struggling beneath it, struggling to stop the unbelievable descent. "Steve!" Clint screamed. _"Steve!"_

The smoke parted and Rogers appeared, propelling through the air toward the quinjet. He flailed, pin-wheeling his legs as much as he could, his eyes wide and terrified as he tried to jump the distance. It seemed to happen peacefully in slow-motion, his haphazard flight across the sky.

The ramp vibrated as his chest slammed into its edge. "No!" howled Romanoff, and she skidded down, reaching as far as she could for his hands. She barely grabbed the manacles binding his wrists together. Natasha pulled him back, struggling to tighten her hold on him, but the metal was slick with blood. And when Egghead's spinning helicopter exploded beneath them, the shock wave jostled Natasha's already tenuous grip. Desperately she tried to reinforce it, and the others scrambled to help, but it was too late. Steve slipped away and disappeared.

_"No!"_

Natasha fell back, pressing her communicator with wild panic in her eyes. "Stark!" she cried. "Tony! Do you have him?"

Silence. No one moved. No one dared to even breathe. _Please…_

Then Tony's voice filled the vacuous quiet. "I got him."

A round of cheering resounded as the SHIELD agents congratulated each other raucously. Clint closed his eyes, the cold rush of relief sapping the very last of his strength. He completely collapsed on the ramp, rolling weakly from his side to his back. A ghost of a smile claimed his bloody lips. He felt people carry him gently to safety, felt Bruce pull his shaking hands from his injuries, felt Natasha's cool, comforting fingers on his sweaty skin. Their soft voices filled his ears, but he couldn't make sense of what they were saying. He couldn't make sense of anything, really. All he knew was he'd done it. They were safe. It was over. He could let go now.

Almost.

He opened his eyes for only a moment. "Tell Fury I quit," he said. Then he mercifully passed out.


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**17**

Steve was healing.

The morning after the Avengers and SHIELD had rescued him, he awoke aware enough to realize where he was. That he was safe. Then he promptly went back to sleep, because the simple act of keeping his eyes open was too strenuous and painful. He proceeded to slumber away the entire day, giving his injured body time to repair itself. And when he opened his eyes again to a bright, sunny morning, things didn't hurt quite so miserably, so he decided to give consciousness a try.

He lay in his hospital bed in the infirmary on SHIELD's helicarrier, his mind still quite muddled. The doctors came in and checked his injuries. He asked them what had happened (because no matter how hard he tried, the jumbled mess of memories in his head just wouldn't coalesce into a meaningful sequence of events), and they told him that he was recovering nicely. The gunshot wound to his flank hadn't been serious, but he'd had an operation to remove the bullet and to repair the damage and clean the shrapnel from his right knee. Vaguely he remembered that; the agony of surgery without anesthesia was not something one could easily forget, even as delirious as he had been. Wincing, he decided not to think about it. He was informed that the vast number of injuries he'd sustained had generally worn his normal resilience to the point where his natural regenerative abilities were too stressed to operate as quickly and efficiently as they normally did. That meant he needed to take it easy, to rest and allow himself longer to recuperate. The massive damage done to his body when he'd been impaled all those days ago had almost healed, but the doctors warned him to be cautious and careful not to aggravate what had nearly been a fatal wound. He was covered in scrapes and bruises and lacerations, fading marks from his captivity and harrowing escape. And the repercussions from being electrocuted and subsequently spending twenty-four hours severely hypothermic were lingering far longer than he would have liked. His muscles still seemed jerky, uncoordinated, and unresponsive. His hands had been so badly burned that they were still bandaged. He was having a difficult time regulating his own body temperature, and when he did manage to get warm, he couldn't seem to stay that way (a fact that brought too many bad memories close to the surface). He couldn't pay attention; his mind wandered incessantly to the dark hours through which he'd suffered, locked alone in Vargas' freezer. Slowly drowning in Schmidt's plane. He decided not to think about _that_, either.

All in all, he looked and felt like he'd been through hell. The scars on his body would fade in time, he knew. But the other scars…

At least he was healing.

After the doctors left, he sat in silence. He knew he should have slept more; it was the best thing for him right now, and the stronger his body became, the faster his convalescence would be. But he was too stiff and sore and cold to get comfortable, and now that he was awake he couldn't stop thinking. He glanced out the door to his room and down the hall to where he'd been told Clint was recovering. He vaguely recalled asking about Barton during the frantic return to the helicarrier, but he couldn't remember what was said. He knew Clint was alive, but beyond that, he wasn't sure. He barely remembered what had happened, but he was certain Clint had been the one to save him. He didn't know what the other man had sacrificed on his behalf. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Healing so fast and so completely was a gift, a blessed privilege. But it was also a curse, in a sense. He could take the hits and get back up when others couldn't. That meant it was his duty to take those hits, to give up himself to protect his men, his teammates. His friends. Clint, for all his strengths and poise and talent, couldn't do what he did. The archer was meant to be high and hidden, to be deadly from afar, to make the impossible shots but _stay safe._ Steve had never imagined this simple mission into the Amazon would go so wrong.

There was a rap at the door, drawing him from his thoughts, and he looked up to find Tony Stark, dressed in expensive jeans and a messily tucked gray dress shirt and blue tie. He stood in the open doorway. Stark was, frankly, the _last_ person he expected. "Hey, Cap." He offered a toothy grin and tipped his head a little. "Got something for you." Without an invitation, he strolled inside and triumphantly presented Steve his shield.

Heat rushed over Steve, spreading through his body like a soothing balm. Heat and joy and relief. Stark handed him the shield, and he laid it on his lap, running his bandaged hands appreciatively over the smooth, round edge. Even through the gauze and dressings, it felt strong and familiar. "Fished it out of the wreckage of the estate," Tony declared, sitting on the side of Steve's hospital bed.

He didn't know what to say. A thousand emotions swirled in his heart. He didn't realize until then how miserably naked and weak he'd felt this whole horrific experience without his shield. "Thanks," he murmured, offering Stark a heartfelt smile. Tony veritably beamed with pride and self-satisfaction, but for once Steve didn't mind the smug smirk plastered all over the billionaire's well-groomed face. "And thanks for saving me. You made a hell of a catch out there."

"Aw, shucks, Rogers," Stark quipped, "you're making me blush." He was being his usual difficult, snide self, but Steve thought he caught a glimmer of true humility in his eyes. "So how are you feeling?"

Steve sighed a little, wincing at pang of lasting discomfort basically radiating over his entire body as he leaned over to set his newly reclaimed shield aside. "Better," he swore. "I'll be good as new in a few days."

"Uh-huh," Stark said, not even bothering to hide his disbelief.

Steve chose to ignore both Tony and the push of unwanted memories prodding at his addled thoughts, stirred to life by Stark's doubts. "What about Barton? How is he?"

Tony shrugged, glancing over his shoulder to the door and down the hall just as Steve had before. "Holding his own, I guess. Idiot screwed his leg up bad. I warned him, but he apparently has an affinity for stupidity and stubbornness. You two are more alike than I realized."

Steve closed his eyes then, unable to fight the swell of guilt, anger, and grief that filled his heart. It had been there for days, ever since he'd been forced to leave Clint to die, but now it was too strong, too foul to ignore. His felt his weary eyes burn as he averted them, hoping Tony wouldn't see. His blurry vision settled on his shield. The paint was scuffed and in many places burned away from the ordeal. "Somebody should have stopped him," Steve muttered when anger finally won out over everything else.

"Really?" Tony said incredulously. "This coming from the man who _sold himself_ to a ruthless drug lord and arms dealer to save someone else." He rolled his eyes. "That is the very definition of the pot calling the kettle black. And people call me a hypocrite."

Steve grimaced. "I can take the abuse," he declared quietly.

Tony looked annoyed. "Just because you can take it doesn't mean you should have to. Don't be so eager to fall on the wire all the time. You're worth more than that."

"I'm not sure I'm worth what Clint gave up," Steve muttered. The guilt wouldn't leave him alone.

"I wouldn't give up on gimpy yet. Besides, it's not like you didn't take a hell of beating for his sake. Barton was the one who landed you in this middle of this mess in the first place." Steve stiffened. He didn't really want to be reminded of that. "They kicked the crap out of you, treated you like an animal, fried you with who knows how many volts. You spent a day reliving becoming a capsicle."

"I got over it before," Steve said, more to himself than to Tony.

"It wasn't used to torture you before," Tony reminded. His words were plain, without empty solace or consolation. Just the simple and undeniable truth. Steve flinched inwardly. "You endured some pretty serious crap. So did he. I don't think either of you will walk away from this unscathed, even if you're lucky enough not to show it."

"We're damn lucky to be walking away _at all_," Steve said disdainfully. The thought of the lasting ramifications of what had happened to him – to both of them – was distressing and discouraging. But he felt more for Clint than he did for himself. Barton was fortunate that they had been able to save his leg, but in their line of work, an injury like that was devastating, no matter what Stark said. "All of this because of one man's greed."

"Money does make the world go around." Tony shrugged neutrally. "Vargas made one huge mistake, though. Well, besides thinking that he could keep you as his prisoner without you taking out half his men."

Steve grunted dismissively and looked at the other man. "What's that?"

"He forgot that some people value Steve Rogers even more than Captain America."

Surprise left him uncertain for a moment. It was always hard to know if Tony Stark was being sincere; the man wielded sarcasm and lies like weapons, like tools to cut and twist and manipulate. He was so smart, a genius in fact, and he tended to look down on everyone not as brilliant as he was. Steve had been mocked and insulted incessantly by Stark since they'd met. Still, when Steve gazed into Tony's open face and waiting eyes in that moment, he didn't see anything but the truth. And he smiled, really smiled, because suddenly everything didn't seem so horrible, so insurmountable, and he knew he wasn't as alone as he'd feared. He never had been.

The moment quickly turned awkward, and Stark changed the subject, like he'd been found out that he actually did care and was embarrassed (though for having cared or having been discovered, Steve couldn't say). "So how much longer are you stuck in here? I hate hospitals. Don't you hate hospitals?"

Steve did, in fact. He'd spent more than his fair share of days sick. But he only shrugged, still greatly comforted by what Tony had said before. "Not sure. I'm supposed to take it easy."

Tony snatched a small black object from the side table and fiddled with it. The television mounted on the wall across the room turned on and in a second the billionaire was navigating through the menus and channels with ease. "Ugh. They don't even have satellite. What the hell. I'll bring you a StarkPad, get you set up with anything you want to watch. Hell, I can get you _anything_ you want period, even something to pass the, uh, lonely night hours, if you know what I'm saying – "

Another knock interrupted Stark's rambling. Steve glanced around Tony and saw Agent Maria Hill standing in the door that had been left ajar. "I didn't really mean that," Tony said quickly, spotting their visitor. "And you've spent enough time sleeping with icicles."

"Tony…" Steve warned.

Hill didn't seem bothered. Her face was stoic, the same unreadable and emotionless expression she always donned. In the short time he'd been affiliated with SHIELD, Steve had never seen her look anything but professional. "Captain Rogers? May I come in?" she asked politely after saddling Tony with a downright terrifying glare.

Steve sat up a little, not thrilled with her seeing him this unkempt and pale and weak. He was wearing a thick sweater over his hospital gown and had about three blankets around him. Despite his hopelessness with women, he still had an ego that he didn't want severely damaged. Least of all in front of Stark. "Sure, ma'am," he called, and Tony rolled his eyes.

"How are you feeling, sir?" she asked, not unkindly. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

"I'm on the mend," Steve said.

"Glad to hear that. I'm here on behalf of Director Fury. He would like to ask a favor of you." Her blue eyes darted to Stark again. "In private."

Tony stood up from the bed and walked over to the monitors behind Steve that had been dark and idle since the nurses had taken him off them this morning. He made some pretense of examining them, adjusting controls and analyzing. "Don't mind me. Just a fly on the wall." It was pretty obvious Stark wasn't going to leave, and it would be futile to try and force him away.

Hill offered the incorrigible billionaire another cold look of disapproval, but she thankfully didn't bother arguing, a fact for which Steve was infinitely grateful because the ache in his head was getting more and more acute. "As you know, we took Juan Vargas prisoner during the rescue operation. We're attempting to leverage him into revealing his sources and customers for his narcotics and weapons businesses. This information could be vital in thwarting other terrorists and hostile organizations across the globe."

Steve had heard they'd captured Vargas during the raid, but he really hadn't given the man much thought until now. It was heartening that such ambitious evil was contained, that Vargas' organization had been dismantled. His illegally trafficked weapons and drugs would do no more harm to the innocents of the world. If anything good had come from this mess, Vargas' incarceration was it. "So he's going to talk?"

Hill looked a little hesitant. "We're attempting to broker some sort of arrangement. We're going to transfer him in a few hours to a maximum security detention center, but he's refusing to commit to any deal without some concessions on our part. He's set some conditions, one of which being that he would like to see you."

The room was silent save for the hum of the helicarrier and the noise outside as the doctors and nurses worked in the ward. Stark stopped faking disinterest and turned to watch Steve. For his own part, Steve didn't quite know what to make of what she had said. He knew his face was betraying his confusion, but he didn't care. Something akin to dread was churning in his stomach. "Me? Why does he want to see me?"

Hill shook her head slightly. "We don't know. I realize this is an… _unusual_ request, and, after all you've been through, not something we're asking lightly. But if you could just go and talk to him, see what he wants – "

"Fine," Steve said, and he moved his blankets carefully aside and shifted his aching, stiff legs to the edge of the bed.

"Whoa, whoa!" Stark snapped, swooping to the bedside and grabbing the rumpled mess of the quilts and shoving them back over Steve. "You can't really be considering this. The guy's a goddamn monster, a real son of a bitch. I shouldn't need to tell you that, for crying out loud. What the hell could he possibly want with you? If SHIELD wants to get him to talk, let them figure out how."

But Steve only determinedly pushed the blankets away again and swung his legs to the floor. The minute his feet touched the cool tiles, the cold shot up through his socks and into his legs, capturing him in its icy, unforgiving grasp, and tensing his muscles was all he could do not to shiver. "He can't hurt me now," he said simply, his voice full of bravado and certainty that he didn't feel.

He didn't need to look to know that a doubtful scowl was covering Tony's face. "Remember what I said about taking abuse?" he asked slowly, like he was speaking to a child about to break the same rule he'd just been reprimanded for breaking.

"Remember what I said about being able to take it?" Steve returned sharply. The icy misery was fading, and he felt stronger. "I can do this. Besides..." He sighed slowly, curling his injured hands as much as he could around the mattress. "I want to." What he didn't say was blatantly clear. _I want to help. I want to stop him. I need to make sure this was worth something._

Stark watched him, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't say anything more as Hill nodded. "Thank you, Captain. We have an escort ready to accompany you, if you're feeling up to it."

"I'll go with him," Stark declared resolutely. He turned a sharp look to Hill as if daring her to challenge him. She seemed somewhat surprised at Tony's offer, to which the inventor opened his hands and made a mock show of being insulted. Perhaps it wasn't entirely false. "What? I'm better protection than a whole company of your goons. Besides, Vargas is – _was_ – a millionaire and I'm a billionaire. He'll be intimidated by those extra zeros. Trust me."

Steve looked up at Tony. He couldn't help the warmth again, spreading over him and warding away the persistent chill. He wanted to thank the other man, but Stark offered him a look that said he didn't need to, that his gratitude was already understood. Stark released a slow breath and shook his head. "First rule of confronting your kidnapper and torturer," he said, jabbing his index finger in Steve's face, "is to look like none of it meant a damn thing. So you go get cleaned up and I'll find you something sharp to wear."

* * *

Something "sharp" to wear ended up being a pair of Steve's jeans, one of his own polo shirts, and a black, standard issue SHIELD jacket. Their options for attire weren't many, as Steve was frankly bigger than almost everyone else on the helicarrier so they had to rely on the few articles of clothing he had brought from his apartment before he and Clint had left for the Amazon. Still, as they tentatively stepped away from the infirmary, Stark seemed pleased that Steve didn't look entirely "like shit", as he put it. Steve was pleased, too, even though apprehension coiled tightly in his belly. It felt damn good to be up and walking around, unbound and ungagged and not otherwise terrified or running for his life. Free.

He tried to put up a front that he wasn't that badly hurt. But there was only so much he could do. He was walking stiffly, his limbs not quite cooperating with his brain's commands, and limping as he tried to favor his right leg. His hands were still thickly bandaged. Fading cuts and bruises littered his jaw and cheeks and brow. But he kept his stature tall and strong and refused to appear as exhausted and miserable as he felt.

Tony walked beside him. Steve knew he was holding back, keeping his strides slower and tighter to match Steve's pace. He was making an admirable show of not seeming worried, but Steve noticed the quick glances. He _was_ worried. He didn't want Steve to get hurt again. When they reached the privacy of the elevator and descended into the bowels of the helicarrier where the detention block was located, Stark decided to openly voice his doubts anew. At least the man didn't beat around the bush. "You don't have to do this. Shouldn't, in fact."

"Yes, I do," Steve answered quickly. _For Clint. For myself._ "Would you just walk away?"

Stark sighed and appeared irritated, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Well, yeah. You don't owe SHIELD anything, and you _certainly_ don't owe Vargas anything. You do remember that the son of a bitch tried to _sell_ you?"

That didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. He didn't answer, and Tony didn't press it further. The doors swished open, and two heavily armed guards greeted them. "Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark," one of them said, appraising the pair. "Right this way." The two SHIELD members led them down through a security checkpoint, where they were required to sign in with fingerprint identification (which proved a little difficult for Steve given how tightly his hands were bandaged, but he managed to peel away from the gauze from his right index finger enough to get a good reading on the scanner). The guards led them through the open doors and down into the detention block. Even more so than the rest of the helicarrier, everything here was an unending, all-consuming gun-metal gray, well-lit but miserably monotonous. The cells were simple, ten-foot by ten-foot squares filled with a bed and a toilet and nothing more. They were closed by heavy, thick, bullet-proof glass where they faced the corridor. Steve limped slowly down the walkway, keeping his eyes ahead as he began to spot other prisoners in the long line of cells. Some he recognized as Vargas' men. Others he didn't know, but he assumed they were buyers who SHIELD had managed to capture during the fiasco at the estate. He ignored them all.

The last cell on the right was apparently their destination. The guards slowed, and the first one looked to Steve. "Right there." And they stood, their rifles held tightly, obviously intending to remain where they were in case Vargas tried something. It seemed pretty laughable. Steve was Captain America and Tony was Iron Man; they could certainly take care of themselves. And Vargas had nothing left, no hired help, no weapons, no money or power. Truth be told, though, Steve was glad they were staying close.

He took a deep breath then and glanced once at Tony, whose expression was tense with anger. The billionaire frowned and shook his head a final time, a last attempt to get Steve to rethink this lunacy, and he almost did. But he'd already come this far. So he steeled himself and stepped in front of Vargas' cell, Tony following.

It was almost as if the drug lord had known he'd arrived, had been waiting in fact. He stood in front of the glass, dressed in a simple gray jump suit. All of his expensive finery was gone. His right arm was in a sling. But his eyes still had that hungry glint in them. Hungry and now a little maniacal. Desperation oozed from him. Desperation and disbelief at what had happened to him. "Ah, Captain!" he called, smiling. "Good of you to come."

Steve stood stiffly, lifting his chin in defiance. He tried not to remember how those eyes had looked as Vargas had lied about letting Clint live, as he'd forced Steve into making that video, as he'd ordered the soldiers to beat him. As he'd locked him in that freezer. Heartless and arrogant and cruel. There were few people in his life that Steve considered too evil to ever warrant forgiveness. Hitler. Schmidt. And now Vargas. This man was simply beyond redemption. "What do you want?" he coolly asked.

Vargas still smiled. That oily, conceited grin hadn't changed, despite the radical transformation of the circumstances. "Why, Captain, can't I just want to talk to you?"

"Only if you cooperate with SHIELD and tell them _everything _they want to know. If you'll do that, I'll listen to what you want to say," Steve said evenly.

Vargas looked hurt, but it all read false and condescending. "Please. I know the best and most profitable option when I see it, and it's certainly _not_ protecting my clients and business associates when a lifetime of prison and hard labor looms inevitably before me. I'll cut a deal with whomever I need to."

Honestly, Steve didn't know why he was at all surprised that Vargas would be perfectly willing to sell out his comrades to save his own skin. "Then why am I here?" he asked, his patience wearing thin. "What the hell do you want?"

Vargas stepped closer and clasped his hands before him. "I only wanted to ask you something because you had me quite fooled that you were the one who destroyed my alien weapons and started this whole… _unfortunate_ turn of events. But it wasn't you, was it?" Steve narrowed his eyes. "Was it?"

"No."

The drug lord flashed a smile that still seemed so dazzling and perfect and confident despite his imprisonment. "Why did you take the fall, knowing what would happen to you?" he asked.

Vargas was most definitely toying with him, but to what end, he didn't know. He wasn't sure he cared to find out. None of this mattered now. Vargas was in custody, and no matter how much he might reduce his punishment with compliance, he wasn't ever going to taste freedom again. And he sure as hell wasn't ever going to have the power and wealth and prestige he'd once enjoyed. So what he thought, what he wanted, why he was still trying to play with his prey… It meant nothing. Steve didn't need to do this. He could walk away.

But he didn't want to be beat. "Because the man who did destroy you is my friend," he answered. "I took the fall for _him_."

"Heroic," Vargas snarled. All his fake amity dissolved in a blink of his furious eyes. "All this time I thought I was punishing the one responsible. I should have killed him when you were both at my mercy. I should have killed him in front of you."

_You nearly did. _Steve kept his expression tense and unbothered. He shrugged. "Your mistake."

Anger flashed even hotter in the other man's glare, but he seemed to manage to control it. He was silent for a moment, staring at Steve with unbridled animosity that he eventually gathered into further taunts. "How fortunate for your friend. Tell me, Captain, did you enjoy your treatment during your stay in my home? You certainly seemed invested in taking it. Is that the purpose behind Captain America, after all? Standing in between so-called innocents and their pitiable fates? A glorified shield? Is that all the super soldier serum is worth?"

"You should know," Steve said. "You're the one who wanted to sell it."

"I did sell it," Vargas declared.

Steve gave a short breath, folding his arms across his chest and hoping the pain never reached his face. "From what I heard, you had it stolen out from under you."

"Not it, Captain. _You._ You keep trying to act like it wasn't you, but it was. I captured _you._ I sold _you._" Vargas' voice rose as he became more and more agitated. "You think you'll ever forget that? Maybe you heal fast and maybe the scars will fade like they were never there, but you'll wake in the night weeks from now, months from now, _years _from now, over and over again, like the torture never ended. You'll be flushed and sweating and screaming and trying your hardest to convince yourself that you're not back in my freezer."

That was enough for Tony. "Steve," he called from the sideline, skewering Vargas with an enraged, disgusted scowl before turning more compassionate eyes on his teammate. "Come on. You don't need to listen to his crap."

Something must have betrayed his anguish. A glimmer of fear in his eyes. The color slipping from his face. Maybe a slight tremor in his taut form. The hitch of his breath. Vargas was perceptive. "I hit close to home, didn't I? I hurt you where it really mattered. You and your friend. You were so strong, so cocky. Get in and do your little mission. Destroy my weapons. But I got my lesson across, didn't I? _Didn't I?_" Steve didn't answer, looking down. Vargas grunted, a satisfied smirk plastered all over his flushed face. "I always get what I want."

"No." The word was out of his mouth before he even thought to speak. He was tired of being pushed around and beaten and used and abused by this man. He should have known better, should have realized Vargas just wanted a parting blow. Just wanted to make sure his mark _stuck_, because that was all he could get now, all there was to show for his confiscated millions and destroyed dreams and damaged pride. And Steve wasn't about to let him have it. "That's the thing that men like you never understand. You can pay people to give you what you want. You can hurt and terrorize and kill to get what you want. Maybe you can build this life where you think you're the most powerful, the richest, the biggest, the smartest… It doesn't matter. Because it's all ill-gotten gains, and those are the sort that _never stay_. Those are the sort the good people of the world are the most eager to take away. So what if you hurt me, hurt us? We'll get over it. Point is: you lost it all, and we won. In the end, we got _everything_ we wanted when we took you out."

Vargas blanched. He obviously hadn't anticipated that the man he'd reduced to a shivering, sobbing, broken mess would stand so strong in front of him. That was a mistake the vindictive often made, thinking their victim could never recover from a devastating blow. But he was healing. _He was healing._

And he was not now, nor would he ever be, this man's victim.

Steve stepped closer to the glass barrier until he was right before Vargas. He'd never stood in front of the other man before like this. He suddenly realized that he _towered_ over him. Steve couldn't help his own grin and the glimmer of power in his hateful eyes. "In the end, you're just a little man trying to buy your way out. Good luck with that." He turned and started to limp from Vargas' cell, not afraid to admit he was hurt anymore. "Come on, Tony," he said as he reached Stark.

"Captain!" Vargas was shouting, wide-eyed and frantic, pressed up against the glass. He pounded on it with his good hand, trying in a frenzy to get Steve's attention. This wasn't how this conversation was meant to go, and they both knew it. "Captain! We're not finished! Captain!" The man trembled and his rage utterly poured from him. "You're a liar! You know what I did to you! I captured you, beat you, brought you down! You can pretend that you escaped me, but you didn't and you never will!" Steve ignored him and continued walking. "I'll stay with you forever! I'm a part of you now, and you can't hide it! Captain! _Captain!_" The pounding got louder, and the voice grew hoarse and wild with panic. The man was up against the corner of his cell, fighting to keep his eyes on Steve as he walked away, his calm countenance ugly now with the colors of defeat and fury and insanity. "I owned you! You're mine! _I own you!_"

"Really," Steve said, stopping and turning and settling an icy glare on Vargas. "Then how come _you're_ the one who ended up in a box?" He paused a moment, purposefully letting that sink its cruel claws into whatever remained of Vargas' heart. The man was pale, shaking his head mindlessly, listlessly, _helplessly_, as he watched Steve leave.

They were halfway down the corridor, Vargas screaming and shouting incoherently behind them, before Tony nudged Steve on the shoulder. "That was an awesome line, Cap," he said. He'd never admit it (and Steve would never mention it), but there was pride in his voice. And there was pride in his eyes as he moved just a little closer to Steve.

Steve laughed. "Yeah, I thought so, too."

"Feel good?"

"Yeah." And that was that. Steve walked away and never looked back.


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**THE RIGHT CALL**

**18**

The steady _thud thud_ of his crutches against the deck plating of the helicarrier was very loud as Clint made his way across the bridge toward the private offices. A few agents and technicians glanced his way, but he really didn't pay them any mind. He knew what scuttlebutt had been about these last three days since the fiasco at Vargas' auction. He'd been generally well regarded before, maybe even revered, but people genuinely didn't know what to think now. He'd made a tremendous mistake, disobeyed direct orders, ignored mission objectives, endangered his teammate, and compromised himself, both physically and professionally.

But he'd also saved Captain America.

That meant _a lot_, especially around here.

The last thing he'd said before losing consciousness aboard the quinjet was now the target of conjecture, of rumor, of judgment and some understanding. Only some. People had their questions, questions about what would happen now. So did he.

He reached his destination and pressed his thumb to the ringer aside from Fury's office. The door buzzed and slid open, and he limped inside, the hollow, heavy sound of the crutches following him wherever he went. Fury looked up from his desk. He was surrounded by a series of monitors, the sleek glass surfaces filled with reports. There were also a few tablets spread around him, one of which the SHIELD Director set down at his entrance. A quick glance revealed the man was dealing with the fallout from the mission to rescue Steve. All in all, it had been a significant success. SHIELD had managed to capture a few of the buyers; unfortunately, they were mostly lieutenants and henchmen for the masterminds who remained at large. Even still, the detention center was loaded with prisoners, and some were interested in cooperation to save their own skins. They'd also effectively destroyed many enemy aircraft, which might have been a small matter, but that meant fewer resources for the evil of the world to continue their plots. Most importantly, however, they had completely destroyed Vargas' criminal empire of drug and arms trafficking. Most of his men were dead, and those that weren't were in custody. His network northward from Colombia into Mexico and the United States was being dismantled as its operatives were rounded up and arrested. They had eliminated a significant threat to world peace.

They hadn't found Egghead's body, though. It didn't seem likely that they would, given the large expanse of inhospitable terrain they needed to search. It seemed equally impossible that Starr could have survived that fall from the helicopter. But there was no certainty, no closure. Just thinking about it made Clint extremely uneasy.

Still, they had accomplished all of their mission objectives and then some and not a single member of SHIELD had been killed.

A significant success. He should have been happier about it.

"Agent Barton," Fury said in greeting. His face was impassive, as it always was. Not for the first time, Clint wished he could just _see_ what the other man was thinking. But Fury was a master at hiding it all, at keeping himself under control, at following through regardless of the implications. Once, a few days ago even, Clint had idolized that. He didn't think he did anymore. "I've heard a rather interesting rumor about you."

Clint stood a little taller, as tall as he could given his complete reliance on the crutches to stay upright. He couldn't put any weight at all on his right leg. His efforts at the estate and during the chase afterward had strained the injury enough to cause further damage. He knew he looked as pale and weak and exhausted as he felt. But he also knew he looked far more broken than he actually was. "I've just come to make it official, sir."

_Something_ flashed in Fury's eye. Disappointment. Fear. Regret. Clint didn't know what. "Care to sit?" the spy asked, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of the silver desk. Clint nodded, shuffling over to it and lowering himself gingerly. Fury sighed, like he was considering how to begin, before pushing the computer displays aside to see Clint more clearly. He leaned back in his chair. "I hoped it was just a rumor."

"No, sir." Clint drew a deep breath and met Fury's gaze. "I want out."

Fury didn't immediately say anything to that, and a tense quiet passed. "Can I ask why?"

Clint had been asking himself that ever since he'd awoken in the infirmary two days ago. He didn't doubt that his choice was the right one, the best one, but he was having the damnedest time trying to understand it. This was all he'd known for _years_, being an agent for SHIELD. Being a spy and a sniper. He knew he was good at it, among the best in the world in fact, and he didn't know if he knew _how_ to be anything else. But he also knew he had to be. Inexplicably, after everything that had happened, he just couldn't go back. He couldn't keep it inside now, his objections and doubts and own morals. Like Pandora's Box, these things were out there, and they couldn't be ignored. Shouldn't be ignored. "I can't do what you need me to do anymore."

"That's a choice," Fury reminded gently. There wasn't any heat in his voice. "Not an absolute."

"It is," Clint argued. "It has to be."

"Why? You know better than anyone that sometimes we have to ignore evil, even partake in evil, to do a greater good. The world isn't black and white."

It was to Steve. _You have to do the right thing at all times and at any cost to yourself._ Clint had known that, but he'd made himself forget it because it was a truth that didn't suit the life he had always led. Fury wasn't wrong. That sort of mindset, the sort that kept the world in those damn absolutes, was ridiculously naïve. That sort of mindset was used and abused by those who cared nothing for good and integrity and valor. It wasn't going to be easy to stay out of the shadows, but he wanted to try. And he couldn't do that as a spy.

"You're right. The world is filled with gray," Clint said. "But it shouldn't have to be. I don't want it to be. I don't want to look the other way anymore. I've done it my whole life. To protect myself, to protect the mission… There can't be any greater good in the face of countless lesser evils."

"You think Rogers isn't a killer?" Fury asked, and Clint narrowed his eyes, struck by the blunt question. "He's a soldier. He's killed men because someone ordered him to do it hundreds of times."

"Killed, not murdered." Steve killed in the defense of innocents. He killed in combat, face to face with bad and sadistic men, with no lies or cover stories or manipulation. A battle field, not a dark corner and an unsuspecting target. Steve killed with courage and strength and good intentions. If there could be such a thing as purity in taking a life, that was as close as it came. "There's a difference. I'm starting to realize it." Clint shook his head, feeling a little ashamed. Not for resigning, but for taking so long to do it. The Chitauri invasion in Manhattan, what Loki had done to him, had opened the door. Those long bleak hours in the Amazon would make him walk through it. "I don't want to be a murderer anymore. I'm sorry."

"So you want to be a hero?" Clint's eyes grew distant as he recalled Tony asking him something similar. "You think there's nothing heroic or self-sacrificial about bearing the darkness, about dousing your hands in blood, so that people like Rogers don't have to? Isn't there some good in that?"

Fury had a point. It was what he'd thought, he'd made himself believe, ever since he'd joined SHIELD. That the ends justified the means. That what he did, and what Romanoff did, was all necessary, and it was. Assassination ensured the death of dangerous individuals who had and would continue to do great evil. It made for justice where there could otherwise be none. _A necessary evil._ "There is," Clint conceded. He took a deep breath and looked Fury straight in the eye. "But I want to be better."

It was silent before Fury smiled. It was a small grin, rueful but not angry or upset. Accepting. "Alright, Barton. You're out." He leaned forward, leather creaking, as he folded his hands together on his desk. "Truth is, I didn't know what the hell I was going to tell the Council this time anyway. I appreciate you letting me off the hook."

Clint grinned too, a bit sadly but not regretfully. Fury, in his own way, was easing his own guilty conscience. "Thank you, sir."

"What are you going to do now?" Fury asked.

Clint grimaced, grabbing his crutches again and struggling to his feet. "If I can get my leg back," he ground out as he finally coordinated keeping all the pressure on his good leg and stood, "and if the others will have me, I'll stay on as Avenger."

Fury seemed pleased with that. "I'm sure they will. You're an asset to any team, one of the best there is. I'd hate to lose that forever."

"You won't. When you call for the Avengers to assemble, I'll be there," Clint swore.

"Good."

They didn't say anything more. It took a little bit of maneuvering to get himself away from the chair and back to the other end of the room. He stepped outside, and the door swished shut behind him. Then he stood still, leaning heavily on his crutches, and closed his eyes. A long breath fled his chest, and for a moment, he didn't think anything or feel anything other than relief.

"Did he let you go?"

Natasha's soft question drew him from his malaise. He opened his eyes to find her waiting for him in the corridor. She stood against the opposite wall, looking cool and unbothered, her arms folded over her chest. But he could see the worry in her eyes. She wasn't doing anything to hide it.

Clint stood a little straighter. "Yeah, he did," he said.

Something flickered across her face, that same sort of fear he'd momentarily noticed in Fury. But hers was deeper, more primal. More intimate. He'd brought her into this life, after all, and now he was leaving it. He could imagine the insecurity she was feeling.

Every now and then, she surprised him with her openness. "I don't know if I can let you go," she softly admitted.

He smiled comfortingly and reached out to take her hand. "You never have to."

* * *

After his meeting with Fury, he went back to his quarters aboard the helicarrier. It took him a while to shuffle and limp there, and when he opened the door to the small, drab room, the persistent sadness building in his chest became so tight and strong that it was nearly painful. He drew a shaky breath and made his way inside and sat tiredly on his bed. And then he looked around, feeling a little numb, a little uncertain. Not so much of what he had done but what he needed to do. He realized then, staring at the gray walls and simple, mundane accommodations, that he really didn't have much. No pictures because he had no family. No possessions because he spent his life traveling the world and killing. Was he anything if he wasn't an agent for SHIELD? He hoped so.

He sighed, resting there for a long time before summoning the energy and courage to move. He stood and limped clumsily to the closet where he found a black duffle bag. He pulled it out, dusted it off, and proceeded to empty the closet and the dresser of the few sets of clothes he kept aboard. He stuffed them inside the bag and (with no small amount of pain and effort) lowered himself to the floor beside his bed. He pulled out a case from underneath that contained his bow. There was also another case with a sword, one he'd had since running from the circus all those years ago. Then a third container, filled with a few handguns and a combat knife. He grunted as he looked at it all. His life. Clothes and weapons and no place to go.

There was a knock. "Come in," he called.

The door swished open, and Steve stood there. At the sight of Clint on the floor, surrounded by open cases and guns and swords and bows, his face fractured in concern and confusion. "You alright?" he asked, stepping inside the small room. The door closed behind him.

Clint chuckled a little. "Yeah. Just getting my stuff."

Steve winced. It was the first time they'd seen each other since they'd nearly crashed in Egghead's helicopter. Rogers looked almost completely healed from the ordeal, only the faintest hints of cuts remaining on his face. It was almost as if it had never happened. _If only._ That little prick of spite lashed at Clint again, and the pain from his leg grew just a bit harsher. _If only the rest of us were so endowed._ But it felt wrong to think such a thing, because his situation wasn't hopeless, and Steve had certainly suffered through some horrible things on his behalf. Everything about the soldier felt a little raw, a little battered and uncertain. Changed, perhaps, by dark hours that would stay with him long after the final vestiges of his wounds disappeared. _If only he could forget. If only I could._

In time, at least, maybe he would forgive himself.

It had become awkwardly silent during Clint's dark thoughts. Rogers' soft voice drew his attention. "I heard you quit SHIELD." It wasn't hard to tell what he thought of that. His face was filled with guilt and worry and dismay. Like it was his fault. It was, in a sense, but not in the way Steve thought. Captain America brought out the best in people. That much good didn't mix well with so much bad. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Clint said simply. He closed the cases with all his weapons and then braced his elbow on the bed and pushed himself up. His chest and arms were sore (both from the injuries he'd sustained and the continual use of them for movement and stability), but he managed to get himself up. Steve's desire to help him was so strong and noticeable it was almost a physical force, but the soldier remained still, standing near the door. Clint got himself back on the bed, breathing a little more heavily than he would have liked, propping his crutches beside him against the mattress. He gingerly stretched his right leg out, setting a tentative hand to the torn and bruised and battered hole in his thigh where muscles and skin once had been. He swallowed thickly and wiped the sweat from his face with his other hand. "It's time to move on."

Steve chewed the inside of his cheek, again uncomfortably silent, before tipping his head toward Clint's injury. "Is that why?"

"No."

If that proclamation made Steve feel better, it wasn't obvious. "Will it ever heal?"

Clint offered a little smile once he caught his wind. "Not completely. But Banner wants to try some sort of procedure that he thinks will stimulate some of my muscles to regrow. Optimistically, I could get eighty percent of strength and functionality back."

Steve shrugged a little, but he didn't do a good job masking his newfound relief as he stepped closer and sat beside Clint on the bed. Suddenly, with that simple, casual act, things didn't seem so strained. "Knowing Doctor Banner, he'll find a way to fix it all."

Clint kept smiling, rubbing the coarse bandages wrapped tightly around his thigh through his pants. He had faith. "Yeah, knowing him."

"But that should still be enough to fight with us. The Avengers, I mean," Steve quickly added. "Vargas wasn't the only monster out there. There will be others, each probably worse than the last. We'll need your eye protecting us and calling out the shots."

Knowingly or not, Steve had just told Clint exactly what he needed to hear, just as Clint had done for Steve. And now Clint could be sure that what he'd told Fury hadn't been a pack of self-delusional lies. He could find his way to where he was needed. He _could_ be better. "Sure thing, Cap. It'd be an honor."

"And if you need a place to stay, I'm sure Tony will set you up," Steve said, glancing at him. "If you can tolerate it. And him." Clint winced. The thought of staying in that overblown, overly extravagant monstrosity known as Stark Tower literally turned his stomach. His hesitation spurned Steve to continue. "Or you can come stay with me for as long as you need. My apartment… Well, SHIELD arranged it, so maybe it's not really the distance you were looking for. But you're welcome to it."

It was a kind offer. "Thanks," Clint said, meeting Rogers' steady and open gaze. "But I think I'll go it on my own for a while."

Steve wasn't hurt. He just nodded. "Wanna stretch out your wings, right?"

"Something like that."

They sat silently for a while. Of course it was all still there. The hell of the crash, the desperate struggle to stay alive against injury and bleak odds. The sacrifices they'd made for each other. Those stood out the most, but they didn't require announcement or shallow words of thanks that did so very little to express the depths of the gratitude they felt for each other and the connection they now shared. They'd left for this mission, each wary and with egos that were a little bruised because they'd been forced together, and emerged on the other side closer. Tighter. Friends. They'd gone in knowing nothing about each other, and they'd come out knowing everything that mattered.

Steve sighed softly. "You know, I was thinking about what you said back in the village. When you asked me what I would have done." Clint nodded, the hazy words flitting across his thoughts as the scene (or what he could clearly recall of it) replayed in his mind. "If it had been me there in the base and you out in the jungle covering my back. If it had been my decision." Steve's eyes grew distant as he thought about it. "If I would have done it differently."

Clint watched him expectantly. "What do you think?"

"I think you made the right call," he said, and there was absolutely no doubt in his voice.

Clint couldn't help but smile at that. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think I did."

Maybe it wasn't complete understanding. After all, they were, and always would be, made of different stuff. But it was acceptance. Forgiveness. Apology. Everything they needed from each other.

Steve chuckled. "Gave them hell, didn't we?"

Clint couldn't agree more. "Sure did."

Then the awkward quiet threatened again, so Steve stood and walked to the door. "Well, you know where to find me. Let me know how it goes with Banner and if there's anything I can do. I'm sure everything will work out."

"Thanks, Cap. I'm sure it will, too. Until next time, huh?"

"Yeah." Steve smiled at him brightly, absolving Clint of his failings. Absolving himself of his own. "See you around, Clint." And then he left.

For a long time, Clint sat, listening to the comforting and familiar hum of helicarrier beneath him. He ran his hand over his thigh again. That smile of Steve's burned into his memory, made his heart swell in a way it hadn't in years. Not since he was a kid and the world had seemed vast but his brother was there to guide him. He thought all about Natasha and Barney and the kid with the red shoes. And he thought about spreading his wings, as Steve had put it, about flying his own way, about being better than he ever had been. About being a hero.

He flopped down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling and smiling. "I did it, Barney," he said. "I hope you're proud."

Of course Barney would never answer him, but that was okay. Clint didn't need him to.

**THE END**

And so end the trials and tribulations of the Disaster Duo. I just want to thank everyone who read, alerted, favorited, and reviewed this story! Your comments are truly appreciated. Extra special thanks to E, who not only beta-read this but help conceive it and plot it and turn it from a romp in the jungle to a story that I think actually had some substance. And bad-assery. :-)

If you are still hungry for Avengers, check out my other stories. They all focus on whumping poor Steve (and usually Clint comes along for the ride) and bromantic, hurt/comfort-ey goodness. Thanks again for reading! Enjoy _Captain America: the Winter Soldier_ next week (for those of us here in the US – you lucky folks in other parts of the world may already be enjoying it). See you next time!


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